


False Starts (and Second Guesses)

by The_lazy_eye



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Mild Angst, Misunderstandings, One Night Stands, Pregnancy Scares, anne doesn't go to GG au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_lazy_eye/pseuds/The_lazy_eye
Summary: It starts in a bar on the south side of Halifax.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 203
Kudos: 282





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For teal_always, who said there aren't enough fics where Anne doesn't end up at Green Gables as kid. They're right, so I wrote one.

It happens at the end of the week in a bar on the south side of Halifax. Well, it doesn’t _happen_ in a bar – not entirely. It _starts_ in a bar, lights blazing and music blaring. Fingers hold onto plastic cups with thin straws and too much liquor. She dances with her head thrown back and her eyes shut against the strobe lights. It’s easy to dance blind when she’s always been able to feel the rhythm in her veins. It pumps through her body like blood and she sways with it, hips moving in a fluid back and forth motion, one arm held high above her head and the other keeping her drink tucked close to her chest where it’s safe. 

Anne Shirley has had one hell of a week. 

For as good as she is at dancing, she’s even better at evading the unwelcome wandering hands of strangers. Every time she feels a hand brush the space where her shorts end but her shirt has yet to begin, she swivels and tosses her hair backwards and into the face of whoever is touching her. It’s a trick she picked up a few years ago. It’s nothing too flashy or obvious, but it creates just enough of a distraction for her to fade into the crowd. Most of the time, it works without a hitch, but every now and then she finds herself face to face with a particularly stubborn man. Unlucky for him, she has more than enough experience with shitty men to know how to lose a guy in ten minutes. 

So, when she inevitably feels someone graze the exposed skin of her lower back, she sets off on the first of her automatic defenses. 

Only when she whips around, she doesn’t find herself face to face with the leering eyes of a guy who’s down to clown. Instead, she finds the unsteady gait of a boy who seems a little bit lost and a whole lot apologetic. 

“I’m so sorry!” He shouts over the music, eyes wide and nervous. His hands automatically come up in surrender as he waits for her to lash out at him. He looks so scared that it stuns her for a second and she finds herself standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor. “I didn’t mean to!”

Normally, the whole _I’m sorry_ schtick wouldn’t work on her but she believes him. There’s something about him that seems earnest in the way that most men aren’t, so she shrugs and continues along with the song without making an escape route. She keeps her eyes open, though, watching him in case he gets any wise ideas. 

He doesn’t. He only cranes his neck around a few times as if he’s searching for someone. He looks completely out of place. The sleeves of his shirt up are pressed and buttoned around his wrist, the shirt itself still buttoned to the very top. It’s tucked into a pair of khaki pants that sit just above a decent pair of shoes. He looks like he either came here straight from his nine to five. Either that, or whoever took him here lied about where they were going. There’s even a pocket square sticking out of his breast pocket.

Vaguely, he reminds Anne of a lost puppy looking for his owner. If he had a tail, it’d be tucked between his legs.

Jeez, he doesn’t even have a drink in his hand. What’s he doing here?

“Are you lost?” She shouts after a moment. His face snaps back to her, eyebrows knit up in confusion or shock, she can’t tell which. 

He doesn’t answer immediately, and when he does she can barely hear him. She only catches clips of _came with_ and _don’t know_ but it’s enough to let her know that yes, he is lost. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the pitiful look in his eyes, but she grabs his wrist and leads him off the floor and away from the speakers. The club they’re in has several rooms tucked away in the back corner, either with a pool table or a dart board sloppily pinned to the wall. They’re the best place to go if you want to have a conversation with someone – not that Anne has ever done that. She doesn’t come to this place to talk, she comes here to blow off steam and let her hair down once every few weeks. Still, she knows these hideaways exist so she brings him to one of them.

Once inside, she turns to him and says, “Alright, Pockets, who’d you lose?”

“Uh,” He blinks at her, caught off guard either by her nickname or behavior. “My friends, Moody and Charlie?”

“Alright,” Anne says, motioning for him to continue. When he doesn’t, she says, “You’re gonna have to give me a little more to work with than that.”

“Work with?” He asks. For a guy dressed so smart, he sure sounds dumb. 

She quirks an eyebrow at him to match his curious expression. “Look, normally I don’t do this kind of thing but you looked pathetic out there so I figured I’d give you a hand and help you find your friends.”

At this, he looks visibly offended. “Whoa, who are you calling pathetic?”

Anne can’t help the way she holds her hands up in mock surrender and parrots, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to accidentally touch you in this extremely crowded club!”

This can either go one of two ways. One, he’s got a decent sense of humor and takes Anne’s observation as a joke; she’ll help him find his friends and then send him on his merry way back home. Or two, he gets defensive (or downright aggressive) and Anne finds herself in a precarious situation where she has to dodge any retaliation as she escapes from the room and vanishes into the crowd. 

His eyes scan over her for a second. All of a sudden, she can’t read him. He seemed so innocent before but she isn’t sure anymore. His eyes can either be soft or hard, puppy or pit bull. She regrets bringing him back here. She regrets putting herself in such a vulnerable situation. Her trepidation only lasts a quarter of a moment, but it’s enough to make her blood run cold. 

“That is _not_ what I sound like,” He says after a second. His mouth quirks up into something like smirk and the anxiety fades out of Anne, just a little bit. He shifts and his eyes shine in the dim light of the bar, playful and teasing. 

“Excuse me for not being able to do an accurate impression with so little to work with,” She gestures back out to the dancing bodies for emphasis and is met with a barking laughter. 

He holds his hand out for her to take, shaking it once before saying, “I’m Gilbert.”

“Anne,” She answers. “So, what’s a dork like you doing in a place like this?”

“Wow, you’re mean,” He laughs, “First you make fun of my voice and now you’re calling me a dork? This is abnormally cruel treatment for a first conversation.”

Anne simply shrugs and waits for him to answer her question. “My friends dragged me out. They said it’d be good for me to get out of the library and into someone’s pants.”

Now it’s Anne’s turn to laugh. “Looking like that?”

“What? I thought I looked good,” He pouts. Anne doesn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, she boldly steps forward and undoes the top three buttons of his dress shirt. Next, one by one she rolls the sleeves of his shirt up just past the elbows. She’s slightly surprised when he lets her, arms going compliantly up to help her in her mission to style him. Then, she ruffles his curls up just a little bit. They were messy before, but the way she runs her fingers through it adds just a little bit of unkempt style. He still looks nine-to-five, but more relaxed. 

“There,” She says, stepping back to admire her work. He would look better if it weren’t for the khakis but you can’t win every time. 

“Thanks,” He says, quiet enough for the music to take his words away. They stand there for a moment and Anne finds herself caught up in his eyes. She can’t quite make out the color in the dim lights, but she knows they’re dark. Brown, probably. Maybe even hazel. 

It’s not the color that captivates her, though, it’s the _way_ he’s looking at her. There’s something in the way he’s staring at her that makes her feel small, yet impossibly large at the same time. They could be the only two people in the room, the bar closed down and emptied around them, and she wouldn’t notice. She’s too caught up in him in a way that would normally scare her if she could even remember to be scared. 

“What brings you here?” He asks suddenly, snapping her out of whatever spell he threw. 

She shrugs, unsure of how to answer. Unlike him, she’s not here with any friends and she doesn’t want to dump all her problems onto the ground between them. She settles for, “Just out looking for some fun.”

“Did you find it?” He asks. She can’t tell if he’s teasing her again or if he’s being earnest. Part of her wants to tease back, to knock his shoulder and tell him she’s having the worst time of her life babysitting some loser. That’d be a lie, though. To her surprise, she _isn’t_ having the worst time. There was a moment where she really didn’t know what she was getting into, but it hasn’t been too bad. He’s funny, a good sport to her gentle ribbing. 

“I think I might have,” She answers honestly. “And how’s that mission going?” Gilbert merely hums in confusion, so Anne continues. “The one where you’re supposed to get into some girl’s pants?”

“Oh, well, as you can see I have ladies lining up left and right to sleep with me,” He deadpans. It earns him a loud snort that he follows with his own. 

They stand in that corner and talk for a while. Then, they stand in that corner and make out for a while. Anne isn’t sure when it happens, or who kisses who first, but it definitely happens. 

It starts in a bar on the south side of Halifax. 

But it ends in a bedroom that is very much not her own. 

At first, when she wakes up, she doesn’t realize she’s not home. Her body is sunken into a too soft mattress, too heavy with sleep to notice anything different. Her mind is full of cotton and mothballs, making her slower on the uptake than normal. When the early morning sun shines through the window and washes over her face, she's almost tempted to roll over and go back to sleep. 

Almost. 

The room is comfortable. It feels homey. Lived in. Loved in. 

That’s the first clue that it isn’t hers. 

The second clue is the warm body next to her. She might not have noticed it if it weren’t for the fact that she felt like she was sleeping next to an actual heater. Waves of warmth emanated from the space immediately to her right. 

She doesn’t want to look over. She doesn’t want to confirm the mistake she knows she made.

Quietly, she slips from the bed and grabs her bra off the ground, then a shirt. She runs through a mental checklist of underwear, pants, socks, shoes – wallet, keys, phone. Once she’s checked everything off, she’s gone. Slipping through the door and down the stairs.

When she’s halfway down the street, she casts an abandoned look over her shoulder. His apartment building catches in the rising sun and almost glows and she finds herself thinking about the boy with dark curls and darker eyes. 

_________________________

She pays like hell for her night out. Her feet ache and her stomach rolls as she makes her way from table to table, taking breakfast orders and serving coffee. The Sunday morning crowd is bustling and loud but she powers through it on hardly any sleep and even less brain power. Waitressing by trade for so many years has allowed her to flick autopilot on when needed. 

“I’ll be right back with your drinks,” She chirps to an elderly couple in her section, smiling blankly while she makes her way into the kitchen. Black coffee with a water on the side. Tea – two honeys and extra milk. Her hands shake with exhaustion while she preps and it causes water to spill over the side of the mug and add to the collection of burns on her wrist. 

“Anne! Table twelve is asking where their food is, get your ass out there!”

“Be right there!” She calls back, putting a few extra sugar packets on her tray and slipping back out of the kitchen. She deposits the coffee and tea before making her way over to twelve, barely registering their order. 

Waitressing isn’t her favorite gig. The hours are long and it's more stress than it’s worth. The tips suck and the pay is worse, but she manages to make enough to scrape by when she combines it with the nannying job she landed. It pays for the room she sublets and the food in the fridge, so it’s good enough for her. 

Plus, it beats cleaning houses. 

People in the diner can be mean and her boss isn’t a particularly pleasant man, but the things she saw when cleaning houses…

Never again. Not if she can help it. 

“Hi, welcome to Andrew’s Alcove, my name is Anne and I’ll be your server this morning. Can I get you started with something to drink?”

_________________________

By the time she finally gets home, she’s dead on her feet. 

Her bag falls to the floor with a thud and she all but collapses on her mattress in the corner of her room. Her clothes from last time are still where she quickly threw them so she could change into her uniform and she groggily pushes them away so she can sprawl out and steal a few quick hours of sleep. 

It isn’t until later when she’s getting ready for her nannying gig with the Hammonds that she notices she’s a shirt she doesn’t recognize sitting rumpled on her floor. She kicks at it until the front of it is face up, revealing the logo for a band she’s never even heard of. 

Shit. It must be that Gilbert guys. Which means she’s never seeing that blue crop top ever again. 

_________________________

The days blur by into weeks as Anne works her hands to the bone. She waits tables and gets screamed at by old men when the soup has too much salt in it. Then, she goes into a home that isn’t hers and changes diapers before helping the eldest with her math homework. Mrs. Hammond stiffs her two out of the five nights she’s there because _things are a bit tight right now, dear. You understand, don’t you? Oh, and don’t forget to unload the dishwasher before you head out_. 

Anne pretends not to notice the new, unopened case of beer in the back of the fridge or the weed that’s tucked into the childproof drawer in the kitchen island. She should be mad, and she is kind of. But she still shows up the next day. 

Eat, kind of. Rinse, kind of. Repeat.

_________________________

“Shirley, get out here! You have tables!” Mr. Andrews bellows from outside the bathroom door. Anne hears him through the rapid pounding of her heart just before she finishes expelling the contents of her stomach into the toilet. As soon as she’s stable, she’s standing on two shaky legs and grabbing a wad of toilet paper to wipe her mouth clean. 

A third wave of nausea hits her like a freight train but she keeps it down, just barely. 

She can do this. She’s worked through worse before.

She tries to brush it off. It must have been from her dinner the night before. She knew those leftovers were just a touch too old, right?

It has to be that. 

Except, when it happens again a few days later she can’t shake the sinking feeling that settles in the pit of her stomach.

_________________________

There’s no one with her when she goes to the corner store down the block from her place. 

There’s no one to hold her hand as she peers under the rim of her baseball cap and slips the cashier a ten-dollar bill. 

There’s no one to hold her hand as she cries in her dirty bathtub, fully clothed and curled up on the tacky linoleum. 

_________________________

His apartment is pretty easy to find. She remembers the route she took home, so she follows it in reverse and sees the tall building looming in the distance. Ironically, it’s not far from her place which makes this whole thing easier if this conversation goes well. 

Not that she’s expecting it to go well. It won’t. No one wants to find out they’re a surprise father with the random girl they hooked up with at a bar they didn’t even want to be at. Sure, they had fun that night but there’s no reason for this man to find joy in this disaster. She’s simply doing this as a formality. After all, he _is_ the dad. He deserves to know. 

Or, at least that’s what she tells herself as she squashes down the miniscule hope that he might be on board. 

Remembering which apartment is his is a bit harder. Once she’s on the floor she thinks is his, she pauses. Every door looks completely identical, which, _duh_. What was she expecting, to walk up here and see one that magically looked like his? As if she knows enough about him to pick out a door that would look like his, anyway. 

Frustrated, she sighs and shakes her head. This was dumb. Maybe if she loiters outside long enough, he’ll show up and she can ambush him then. She should have brought his shirt along. It would make a halfway decent excuse as to why she’s stalking his building to find him. She could have used it as a distraction, going with him up to his apartment so they wouldn’t have to have an awkward conversation on his front sidewalk. 

She’ll come back later with the shirt and find him. Somewhere in the next few weeks she must have a day off, she can just park herself on the bench out front with a book and hang around. Yeah, that sounds like a decent plan. It’s not perfect, but it’s the best she’s got. 

She’s so wrapped up in her thoughts that she doesn’t hear the heavy footsteps of someone coming down the hall until it’s too late and she’s crashing into them. 

They both stumble and two hands come out to steady both of them. 

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” She says.

At the same time, he says, “Shit, sorry, I should have been looking where I was going.”

She doesn’t quite make out his words, but she hears enough to know that tone. Her head snaps up to see him – Gilbert – standing right in front of her. He must register at the same time because an equal look of surprise crosses his face. 

He looks good in the daylight and she’s pleased to find that he dresses like a dork outside of shitty bars, too. 

He smiles and it triggers her own smile before she remembers why she came. 

“Carrots, it’s you,” He breathes as if all the wind has been knocked from his lungs. He’s looking at her with such wonder that it would almost be cute – romantic, even – if it hadn’t been for the exact words that just came out of his mouth. 

Without warning, without even sparing a thought to what she was about to do, Anne brings her arm back and swings it clean in front of her, palm connecting with the left side of Gilbert’s face and sending his head snapping to the side. The _smack_ is satisfying, even if it sends a vibrating ache down the length of her arm. 

“How dare you,” She seethes, anger welling up inside of her. It’s hot and the fire licks at the back of her throat, begging her to let loose an onslaught of words he surely deserves. 

“I’m sorry – I don’t –”

“Carrots?” She shrieks, unable to hold the rage in her voice back. 

“I’m sorry, I forgot your name and I –”

“You _forgot my name_?” Now all bets are off. This has got to be the worst idea she’s ever had. Going to find the random guy she had a one-night stand with just to burden him with an accidental pregnancy? Without even knowing anything about him? No, this isn’t going to work. Not for either of them. She can do this alone. “Wow, okay. I see how it is. I’ll see you around, _Gilbert_.” 

She emphasizes his name before turning around and marching down the hall, desperate to preserve her dignity as she prepares to step back into the harsh reality of her life. Alone. 

“Wait, no, please don’t go!” He shouts, closer than he should be. He’s following her right behind her, long legs easily catching up to her and matching pace. “I’m sorry, really. Let me make it up to you. Let me take you out for food or something?

“Leave me alone,” She barks, but he doesn’t. He keeps up with her all the way down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. 

“It was meant to be cute,” He continues, blatantly ignoring the way she’s blatantly ignoring him. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you but I couldn’t remember you know and didn’t know how to find you. It’s a nickname, you know, for your hair?”

This stops her right in her tracks. Thankfully, the sidewalk is mostly empty so no one crashes into her except Gilbert, looking stunned through the blotchy patch she left on him moments ago. His face looks off kilter with only one reddened cheek, maybe she should even it out…

“I _know_ what it’s for, you asshole!” She cuts, not minding her manners one bit. “You think I don’t know you were taking a shot at my hair? You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

“A shot? No, you’re misunderstanding. It’s not an insult, it’s a _compliment_.”

“How the hell is that a compliment?! Who looks at carrots and thinks, _oh, cute, I totally want to be compared to that?!”_ She’s shouting now, but she can’t find it in herself to care. He really has the audacity to insult her to her face and then _lie_ when she reacts poorly?

“I promise,” He says. His voice doesn’t raise to match hers. Instead, it remains steady. He looks like he wants to take another step forward and take her hand, but he doesn’t. Good on him, too, because Anne isn’t sure how she’ll react if he touches her right now. He seems to sense this is a losing battle, because he changes the subject and asks, “Why did you come by, anyway?”

If Anne wasn’t red before, she knows she is now. She can feel the heat of her blush radiating up and out of the collar of her shirt. She has half a mind to forget it and just walk away, uninvolved him from her life entirely and handle this on her own. But then she thinks of two bright little eyes and having to live with the knowledge that maybe – _just maybe_ – this kid could have had a father and she made the selfish decision to cut him out. 

She has to try. 

“I’m pregnant,” She says, seeing no point in beating around the bush any longer. In another version of this story, she might have been invited inside and given a glass of water. They might have made simple small talk and she would have brought it up with a small preamble. 

In this universe, he insulted her and she assaulted him. 

In another universe, he might have been open to the idea of being a father. Maybe even excited. 

In this universe, he says –

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah I'm so excited to be back - and with a multi chapter work! I wasn't going to split this up but I decided to give it a try and split it into chapters instead of posting a giant monster (however long it ends up being). This was both driven by my own selfish desire to post this sooner and by my excitement over this fic.
> 
> I'm having so much fun writing it, I hope you have fun reading!
> 
> As always, this isn't beta read so if you find mistakes PLEASE let me know and I'll fix them ASAP.
> 
> I hope everyone is well and safe in this world. One day at a time, y'all. We got this.
> 
> If you want, come chat w me @ thelazyeye.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He picks her up on a Tuesday. She manages to convince Mr. Andrews to let Prissy cover the last half of her shift and that gives her enough time to change her clothes and shower before meeting him on the corner of her street.

“Uhm, okay,” He breathes, running a hand through his hair. Somehow, his curls come away even messier than before. “This is… _fuck_.”

“Yeah,” She says, wrapping her arms around her center and avoiding his eye. Not that he’s even looking at her. He’s pointedly looking anywhere _but_ her. 

He hums and his eyebrows pinch together like two very expressive caterpillars. She knows he’s not happy. She’s not happy, either, but that’s just too damn bad. Reality doesn’t care if you’re happy or now – she’s got enough life experience to know that much. You can’t ignore the harsh sting of daylight for long. 

“What do we do?” He asks as if she has any clue. She doesn’t. She can hardly see beyond next week, let alone nine months into the future. 

“I don’t know,” Is the only answer she can say honestly. She can’t make many promises, so it’s better to keep things in the realm of reason. 

He runs another hand through his hair. Mentally, she braces herself for what’s coming. His expression hasn’t changed at all so he must be gearing up for a fight. No one looks that stern and upset without externalizing it. 

But then he asks, “When’s your next doctor’s appointment?”

“I’m sorry?” She asks, equal parts stunned and confused. 

“So, I can come with you? I have class during the day but I’m sure I can work it out. Just, in the future can we schedule them together? I want to make sure I’m free.”

She thought for sure he was going to turn on his heel and retreat back into his apartment. But here he is, asking about doctors. “You don’t have to do that. I’m not going to, like, take you to court or anything. I just thought you deserved to know. I don’t expect anything from you.”

It’s Gilbert’s turn to blink at her. “Why wouldn’t I – wait, did you think I was just gonna abandon you?” His eyes grow wider than a full moon and his jaw practically hits the floor at his realization. He looks like a cartoon character or an actor in a really bad soap opera. Thankfully, Anne finds it in her to not laugh at him, remembering this is supposed to be a serious conversation.

“Yes?” She answers honestly. He doesn’t have to stick around and play _mister nice guy_ , so if he’s waiting for permission to leave she’s going to give it to him. Might as well get it over with sooner rather than later. “Really, I don’t expect anything from you. I’m not after your money or anything, so you don’t have to pretend to be into this. No one wants a kid in their twenties. I just wanted you to know so you know.”

Gilbert seemingly ignores everything Anne just said except for the part about not wanting a kid, eyes shifting from comically wide to tragically hooded. “You’re going to terminate?” 

That one line has enough emotion to pack a hefty punch and it leaves Anne stunned for the umpteenth time. 

She hardly has a chance to formulate a sentence when Gilbert stumbles into his voice again. “Not that I’m pro-life or anything. I’m pro-choice, if you think that’s best then I won’t stop you.”

“I’m not going to terminate,” She says carefully, gauging his reaction as some of the sorrow leaves his eyes. He has half a mind to still look cautious, though. 

“Adoption?”

“No.” She won’t subject a child to the nightmares of her past, no matter how unprepared she is to bring it into the world. She’ll figure it out. _She has to_. 

“Okay,” He puts his hand out and gestures toward her, “Give me your phone.”

Wordlessly, she does and he taps his number into it, sending himself a quick text that’s nothing but a group of meaningless emojis before handing it back. “Text me the appointment date and time.”

She does. 

_________________________

He picks her up on a Tuesday. She manages to convince Mr. Andrews to let Prissy cover the last half of her shift and that gives her enough time to change her clothes and shower before meeting him on the corner of her street. 

He looks put together where she feels like she’s falling apart. 

Neither of them seems to know what to say, so they drive in silence after exchanging polite greetings. It’s a thick kind of silence that has Anne feeling muggy and uncomfortable, as if the entire car is filling with tar and oil and she’s drowning it in. She feels like she’s drowning in this entire situation. 

She is way in over her head, but really that’s nothing new. She should have known something like this would happen. It’s always girls like her that end up this way. 

“I’m not going to lie to you, this is going to be really hard,” He says at a stoplight. “This whole thing. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

Anne braces herself for the impact of whatever he’s going to say. His setup is less than comforting and she can tell where this is going. “I know.”

What he says is not what she expects him to say. 

“I’m scared.”

She glances over at him for the first time since she got in his car and finds him a little disheveled. He still looks nerdy, but there’s something unkempt about the way his shirt is wrinkled and the weight of the bags under his eyes. It makes Anne believe him. 

“About what?” She asks, unwilling to confide that she is also scared. If he wants to be an open book, fine. But she’s not going to bear her soul back. 

“A lot of things. Being a father, I guess. Fucking this whole thing up. It’s a _baby_. Like a real human baby that we’d be responsible for. It’ll be dependent on us to take care of it and teach it. What if I’m a bad dad?”

His raw honesty makes Anne squirm in her seat. She doesn’t understand how he puts a voice to all his insecurities so easily. How he bares his soul without flinching. 

“And I’m kind of scared about us? Like, not _us_ as a couple, but us as co-parents. I already fucked that one up. We hardly know each other and you already hate me. How are we supposed to do this?”

“I don’t hate you,” She says too quickly. The urge to comfort him is overwhelming and she can’t tell if it’s hormones or if it’s the sound of his voice. 

“You don’t?”

“No,” She says. She leaves it at that, because she doesn’t necessarily like him, either, but saying that won’t help either of them. 

He seems to relax a little at her reassurance-by-omission. He casts a wary smile at her and pulls into the clinic parking lot. “That makes me really happy.”

She pretends she doesn’t hear him and climbs out of the car. 

Once they get inside, the receptionist hands them paperwork and instructs Anne to fill it out while they wait. She does, settling into a chair and trying not to shy away as Gilbert sits next to her.

When she catches him peeking over her shoulder as she fills out the top of her form, she hisses, “Anne. My name is _Anne_.”

“To be fair, you didn’t give it to me last time I saw you.”

“I shouldn’t have had to,” She grumbles, fully aware that she’s not being fair. 

He doesn’t fight her on it, but he does whisper, “I love that spelling. I think the E adds some flare,” as he continues to watch as she fills the forms out. Every now and then, he pipes in with a dumb comment like, “Oh, you’re a Pisces?” or “No allergies? I picked a baby momma with good genetics.”

That last one earns him a sharp pinch to the thigh. He yelps, but he takes it in stride. She can’t be too mad at him. He’s obviously trying to lighten the mood up and, judging by the way his leg is practically shaking out of its pant leg, he’s just as nervous as she is. 

Being in this waiting room together makes it real. It makes this more than just a bad dream. 

It makes her sick to her stomach.

An indeterminable amount of time passes between when she returns the paperwork and when her name is called back. She undergoes the standard procedures with a straight face. Weight, height, vitals – all the big ticket items in doctor’s offices. It isn’t until she’s being led back into the actual examination room that she begins to falter. 

Gilbert seems to sense this, because he reaches over and wordlessly takes her hand. To her own surprise, she doesn’t knock him away. His hand is heavy and warm. It grounds her from her anxiety. 

It doesn’t take long for the doctor to enter the room. She marches in with a clipboard and a smile on her face, introducing herself as Dr. Taylor and turning to get the room set up. 

Anne watches her go, scanning her and trying not to let the anxiety of their situation creep up on her. She looks kind and competent; two things Anne has never had in a doctor before. All of her pediatricians were cruel and impatient. Once she aged out of the system, she never managed to make enough money to afford her own health insurance so she never got a doctor of her own. Thankfully, she hadn’t really needed to up until this point.

She never thought her first trip back to the doctors would be for a prenatal checkup, but here she is. 

“Well, aren’t you two just the cutest couple in Halifax?” The doctor coos as she washes her hands. She casts a secondary glance over her shoulder and says, “With your red hair and his curls, I’d be excited to imagine all the possibilities!”

Anne flushes at her words, suddenly aware of how the two of them look. Gilbert is perched in the chair next to her, pulled up close so he’s practically crowding her space. His hand grips hers tightly as a show of support and comfort and she realizes how domestic they must look. 

“First child?” She asks and Anne can only nod dumbly. “All first time parents look nervous like you guys. Try not to worry too much. I’ll answer any and all questions you guys have for me and then some. Hopefully you leave feeling more prepared than you did when you walked in. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great,” Gilbert smiles. 

“I’m going to start by asking a few questions. Date of possible conception?”

“August fourth,” Gilbert says without hesitation. Anne’s head snaps to look at him and she finds him focusing on the doctor, a sudden air of confidence surrounding him. Gone is the goofy boy from the waiting room and the scared boy in the car. He looks at her with a reassuring smile and whispers, “I don’t go out all the time, it wasn’t hard to get the exact date.”

“Fantastic!” Dr. Taylor scribbles something down on her clipboard and then asks, “Any preexisting medical conditions?”

“None that I’m aware of,” Anne says.

“Any sexual transmitted infections?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Anne repeats, casting a sideways glance at Gilbert. 

He coughs and says, “No, ma’am.”

Doctor Taylor nods and continues writing. Then, she turns to Anne and says, “I need to ask some questions about family history. We’ll start with you, is that okay?”

“Actually,” Anne says, stringently avoiding eye contact with either of them. “I’m an orphan with no remaining family or family records. If there’s a family history of anything, I wouldn’t know about it. You can skip me and go straight to him.”

The room goes deathly silent for a second before the doctor scratches away at the chart. “I’m sorry to hear that, Anne,” She says politely. 

Anne tunes out Dr. Taylor’s conversation with Gilbert. It’s something she should probably pay attention to, but she can’t bring herself to listen. She doesn’t want to listen to anything about Gilbert’s family, not with the press of her own existence weighing heavily on her chest. 

This isn’t how she imagined becoming a mother, if she ever decided to do it. She imagined making the decision consciously with her husband, the person whom she would love and would love her back. Not accidentally breaking a condom with a complete stranger. This picture that they’ve painted, the one where Dr. Taylor thinks them to be a young couple stepping onto the cherished path to parenthood together, is nothing but a lie.

She wonders if his parents are going to be proud of him. Will they wrap him up in a hug and help him through this difficult transition? She hopes so, but it hurts to think about when she knows she’s going home to four empty walls. 

God, it burns. 

“Anne?” Gilbert says softly, only getting her attention when he nudges her arm. 

“Sorry,” She shakes her head, focusing back on their doctor. 

“It’s alright, sweetie,” She says. The nickname feels both patronizing and comforting at the same time. “I was just saying that we’re going to perform a couple routine tests. I’m going to do a quick physical examination and then I’m going to have you take a pregnancy test, just to make sure.”

Anne nods and the visit proceeds. Gilbert leaves the room for parts of the examination, and Anne grits her teeth when the doctor conducts her pelvic exam. 

She comes back with a clean bill of health and Gilbert joins them as they prepare to wait for the result of the secondary test. 

Dr. Taylor excuses herself, stating that the test will take a few moments and that she wants to enter the information into the system. 

“So, how are you feeling?” Gilbert asks once she’s gone. His voice is meant to be soothing, but irritation takes the place of comfort. 

Instead of speaking, she shakes her head. It wouldn’t be fair to take her emotions out on Gilbert – not when he’s been nothing but kind. Still, she can’t help the way the storm rages inside of her. 

If she was being honest, she would have said she’s upset and exhausted from being poked, prodded, and questioned. Dr. Taylor is as sweet as they come, but it’s tough work being picked up apart and examined. Especially when the patient is silently unwilling. 

Whether he senses the vibes she’s giving off or because he’s ignorant to her emotions, Gilbert doesn’t push her. He changes the subject entirely. 

“Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I fainted in a doctor’s office?”

“No, you’ve never told me about any time you’ve done anything considering we don’t know each other,” She says dryly. She doesn’t mean for the irritation to seep out of the cracks in her armor, but it does. 

He snorts at her sarcasm, interpreting it as friendly instead of hostile. It’s more hostile than anything, but she doesn’t tell him that as she motions for him to continue. 

“It was back when I was an apprentice in the doctor’s office in my hometown. I was so excited because I finally figured out what I wanted to do with my life and then Dr. Ward pulled a needle out and I fainted on the spot. Woke up to him holding smelling salts under my nose and chastising me about getting thicker skin. He said if I wanted to be a doctor I would need to be able to get past my debilitating fear of needles.”

Anne doesn’t laugh the way he obviously expects her to. She gapes at him, jaw on the floor in a way that probably mirrors the way his own was when she told him she was pregnant. After a few seconds of silence, she whispers, “You’re a doctor?”

“No,” He corrects, “Not yet. I’m in medical school, though. You’re looking at the future doctor Blythe.”

Doctor Blythe? 

_Doctor_ Blythe? 

Doctor _Blythe_?

She rolls it around in her head, emphasizing different words to really drive the point home that she knows _nothing_ about him. She didn’t even know his last time until a few seconds ago. He didn’t know her first name until an hour ago!

This is insane. This isn’t going to work. There’s _no way_ this is going to work. 

“Anne?” Gilbert asks softly, suddenly looking as if he’s trying not to spook a wounded animal. He might be onto something, too, because Anne feels approximately one second away from a complete breakdown. She’s only made it this far by shoving the issue into the deepest depths of her chest, ignoring it until she couldn’t anymore. And she can’t. Not when it’s staring her directly in the face with two big, brown eyes. “Are you okay?”

No. No, she’s not okay. 

It’s in that moment that the door opens and Dr. Taylor steps back into the room. She observes the _happy couple_ sitting in her examination room and gently closes the door.

“Hey, you two,” She says. Her voice is different, somehow, as if she can sense that Anne is on the verge of having a fit. She pulls up the only remaining chair in the office and sits down, resting her chart on her lap and glancing between the two of them. “It looks like there’s been a bit of a mix up.”

“What kind of mix up?” Gilbert asks, stern but not mean. 

“Well,” She says, taking a breath and leaning her elbows on her knees in a way that is comforting, but maintains her professional demeanor. “Anne isn’t pregnant. Your test came back negative. It seems as though the test you took must have given you a false positive.”

The entire world stops spinning in that moment. She’s… not pregnant? This stranger sitting next to her with his stupid, goofy laugh and irritatingly soothing voice won’t be the father of her child? She won’t have to scrape together the cash to pay for a pregnancy and another mouth to feed?

She won’t get to meet the eyes that have visited her in her dreams over the past week and a half?

She should be relieved. She _is_ relieved. She’s so relieved she could cry but she’s also _something else_. 

“I understand if you need a few moments to process this news. I’ll give you some space and come back in a –”

“That won’t be necessary, doctor,” Anne says, standing up so quickly she sees stars. She shoots her hand out to shake Dr. Taylor’s. “Thank you so much for your time, I’m sorry if we wasted any of it. Is there anything else you need us to do before we leave?”

“Uh,” Dr. Taylor says, clearly caught off guard. “No, you’re good with me. You need to stop and see the receptionist on your way out though. I understand that this news might be shocking, I hope you take the time you need to process it. And you weren’t wasting my time, Anne. This is my job.”

“Thank you, again,” Anne says, polite and succinct as they shake hands. Then, she’s out of the office with Gilbert trailing behind her, quickly thanking the doctor before jogging to keep up. 

He catches up with her just as she’s asking the receptionist about payment plans. 

“Whoa, wait a second,” He says, catching his breath, “Five hundred dollars? That can’t be right.”

The receptionist doesn’t bat an eye when he says, “That’s the standard cost for an appointment with no insurance.”

God dammit. 

_________________________

She slams the door to his car. 

Hard. 

_On purpose._

He had no right! She wasn’t joking when she said she didn’t want anything from him, especially money. But here he is, paying for her stupid _unnecessary_ doctor’s appointment out of pocket. 

_No, Gilbert, it wasn’t your responsibility. It wasn’t your appointment! Sure, you were there, but it wasn’t your appointment. You weren’t the one who had a mental clamp shoved up your vagina; you weren’t the one who peed on a stick! Two sticks, actually!_

She’s so angry she’s seeing red. She won’t even look at him and isn’t even thankful when he doesn’t push the matter. She _wants_ him to push the matter. She wants to fight with him. She wants him to feel bad about what he did. He deserves that much.

The car is silent as he pulls out of the parking lot and makes his way back to her apartment. The silence gives her space to brood over the events of the past day. Underneath the anger, there is a heavy layer of exhaustion, both physical and emotional. As much as she wants to scream and punch, she wants to sleep. 

The further away from the clinic they get, the more real things become. It had taken her a while to accept her pregnancy, and now it’s taking her a while to accept its fallacy. 

She’s _not_ pregnant. She won’t be a mother. 

And this stranger beside her won’t be a father. She wonders what he’s thinking in all of this. If his relief is all consuming or if he feels the same storm of emotions. He’s probably relieved. He must have been hoping for this the entire time. 

No one wants a kid in their early twenties.

When she glances over to find out, she can’t get a read of his face. This stranger… This – this _Gilbert_ had no way of knowing what was going to happen in that office, and yet he still insisted on coming along. He held her hand. He asked all the important questions she didn’t know to ask herself. 

And now he’s driving her home instead of leaving her at the office to walk. Which he should have done, given how she’s treated him. After this, they never have to see each other again. she’s sure he’s eager to get away from her, and yet he’s still driving her home. 

It’s then that it dawns on her. He was going to stay, wasn’t he?

The fight leaks out of her and the hollow space it leaves behind is harrowing. 

“You really would have done that for me?” Anne asks. Her voice is small as she tucks herself against the door, the phantom feeling of pseudo-loss still hanging heavy on her shoulders. 

“Done what?” Gilbert asks, turning the key in the ignition and letting his car rumble to life. 

“Stayed? If it was really true. If I really was…” She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence. She can’t tell if she’s grieving or relieved. There’s no way in hell she would have been able to support a child, not with the life she’s living, but she can’t help but wish it was real. Her, a mother to a child. Sure, they’d be as poor as church mice but she would love that child ‘til the end of time. 

“Of course, I would have,” He says like it’s nothing at all. Like a bastard child wouldn’t ruin the perfect life he has going for him. Like it wouldn’t stand in the way of him becoming a doctor. “The baby would have been mine – _ours_. I could never walk away from that. We would have made it work. I would have done anything I could for you and that little one. Anything you asked of me.” He pauses, then adds, “Unless you asked me not to be in her life. I don’t think I’d ever be able to walk away from that. I couldn’t handle knowing I had a child in this world and not be allowed to know her.”

“Her?” Anne asks without meaning to, Gilbert’s candid use of gender pronouns throwing her off kilter. 

“Just a gut feeling I had,” He laughs. “I guess I should never listen to my gut, though, because there was never anything to call ‘her.’”

Anne chuckles, too, but it’s a hollow sound compared to the way Gilbert was trying to lighten the mood. She sees him shift from the corner of her eye and feels the way he reaches out to gently take her hand. “I’m sorry, Anne.”

Stiffly, she swallows and straightens up. “It’s better this way, right? Now neither of us need to worry about feeding a mouth we can’t afford and we don’t have to deal with each other anymore.”

She closes her eyes, but not before she catches the hurt expression that cloaks his face. Maybe if she doesn’t see it, she can pretend it’s not there. 

_________________________

She’s not sure why she lets him follow her inside, but she does. It started with him insisting that he walk her to her door, just to make sure she’s okay. She relented, letting him follow her around back to her private entrance. He claimed he didn’t mind the unpaved side yard, but he tripped over a rock, anyway. 

Then, he asked to come inside her… well apartment isn’t the right word for it. If she had to call her place anything, it would be a boarding house. Anne pays for a single room the size of a shoebox on the bottom floor of a house that has about five other bedrooms and five other occupants, none of whom she knows the name of. The only time she sees them are when she’s in the kitchen or they’re vying for the shower. 

It’s tough living with so many other people with such little shared space. The fridge is always overpacked and there’s never any hot water. But she can afford it and that’s all that counts. 

And for some strange reason, when he asks to come inside she lets him. 

There are notebooks scattered messily around her apartment. One sits wide open on the desk – she makes sure to flip it closed as she walks by – next to several that are haphazardly stacked next to it. Two poke out from under the bed, but she knows there are probably more down there. There are more everywhere, sitting in all the places she might have found inspiration that has long left her mind. They’re all half-filled, abandoned stories that have been a decade in the making. 

Somewhere under the mask she’s carefully fastened to her face, she finds it in herself to be embarrassed. Gilbert, however, doesn’t seem to mind as he jams his hands in his pockets and glances around. 

“It’s cute,” He hums. She can’t help but bristle at his patronization. 

“Well, sorry not all of us are hot shot doctors who can afford a decent place.”

“Whoa,” His hands shoot up out of his pockets in that same old surrender position, “I didn’t say that. Besides, my place isn’t anything to brag about.”

She harrumphs in response, turning her shoulder so she doesn’t have to look him in the eye. His eyes are too much and she finds herself squirming under their heavy gaze. At least he has his own kitchen. 

“Also, not a doctor. Not yet. Just a med student.”

“Whatever,” She says. She can’t help it. Having him inside the only place she finds repose from the harsh world is too much. It feels like someone’s starting into her soul and she’s far too tired for this kind of interaction. 

“You must be exhausted,” He says after a moment. His tone doesn’t sound pitying but his words do. “Let me make you something to eat so I can get out of your hair.”

She ignores any and all allusions to her hair and says, “I’m perfectly capable of cooking for myself.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” He hums, moving to toe his shoes off and step further inside. The motion makes her uneasy, but she does nothing to stop him. “I just want to help.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t?”

“No.”

“Then what do I want to do? What could a guy like me gain from cooking a girl like you dinner?” He hums. A disgustingly smug look crosses over his face. 

Suddenly she’s no longer standing in front of the same Gilbert who took her to the doctor. No, she’s standing in front of that rude boy in the hallway, showing his true colors and making her want to spit in his face. She never should have let him in.

“A girl like me?” She scoffs, visibly bristling. Picking fights is easier than saying what she really feels. It’s easier to fight him now and have him leave angry than for her to say he makes her feel judged and small. Never, _ever_ , will she admit to that. She’s spent enough time being so vulnerable around him, so she does the one thing she knows will keep her safe. She attacks. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Nothing!” He says, a look of realization crossing over his face. “That came out wrong, it was a joke.”

“Get out,” She says, not giving him time to explain. 

“Wait, Anne. I’m sorry. Please, let me make you some food.”

“No,” She marches toward him and pushes, obviously not scared to get in his face despite his overwhelming size advantage. For what she lacks in height and muscle, she makes up for in fire. “Get out.”

“I just want to help,” Gilbert insists, going when Anne’s tiny hands push him back toward the door. “It’s my fault you had to go through all this in the first place and I’m sorry. I just want to make one thing easier for you today. I put you through hell.”

“It takes two to make a baby,” Anne snaps back. She hates that he keeps doing that – trying to take responsibility for things that don’t belong to him. As if he knows anything about her; as if he has some kind of power over her. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to do.”

“I’m glad,” He says carefully, now all the way at the door. He doesn’t put his shoes back on. “But I had some hand in this, too. You weren’t there looking for a hookup and then I come barreling into your life, put my dick inside you, and boom: pregnancy scare.”

When she doesn’t answer, he sighs, “Look Anne, I’m not a woman.”

_“Obviously.”_

“So,” He emphasizes, continuing on despite her interruption. “I have no idea what you just went through. I know it would have been my kid too, and I would have done anything to help and be there, but it’s not the same. It’s not me who would have had to go through that. It’s not my body. I want to do what I can to make it easier.”

By the time he’s finished speaking his chest is heaving slightly and he looks a little frantic. A little desperate.

Fine. Whatever. If it’ll get him to stop looking at her like that, he can make her dinner. 

When she shows him the shared kitchen and which food belongs to her, he simply smiles and gives her a thumbs up. 

She regrets her decision approximately twenty minutes later, when the smoke alarm is blaring and all two of the kitchen windows are thrown wide open. Gilbert holds a cutting board and Anne holds one of her notebooks, both fanning the air as hard as they can to direct the smoke out of the apartment. 

At least he has the decency to look embarrassed instead of smug. It makes her want to punch him a little less. 

He orders her a pizza to make up for almost burning the house down. 

_________________________

The next day, she finds a confused delivery boy knocking on her door. He holds up a brown paper back that sits tucked inside of a red plastic bag.

“Delivery for Anne Shirley?” He asks, looking around at the overgrown bush that sits next to her door. She notices the rock Gilbert tripped over yesterday is in a new spot and she makes a mental note to move it so no one else can fall casualty to it. 

“I didn’t order anything,” She deadpans, because she didn’t. “And I don’t have any money to pay you.”

“It’s already been paid for,” He says. “And this is the correct address. And you’re Anne?”

She nods. 

“Okay, cool. As long as it’s paid for and your name is Anne, it’s yours. Not my job to solve the mystery of where it came from.”

He hands her the bag and before she can protest further, he’s gone.

Might as well take it inside. 

She finds Chinese food and a note. 

_Anne,_

_Sorry for almost burning your house down. I hope you like chicken and broccoli. And egg rolls. If you don’t, we can’t be friends._

_(Just kidding)_

_Seriously, though. Sorry for the fire. I hope I see you around._

_~ Gilbert Blythe_

She’s going to slap this man. _Again._

_________________________

He shows up at her door a few nights later with _another_ bag of food. 

“Anne! You’re here!”

God, he looks so fucking endearing. 

“Yes, this is where I live,” She deadpans, similarly to how she treated the stray delivery boy. 

“Yeah, I know that. I just wasn’t sure when you’d be home. I have no idea what hours you work.”

“What would you have done if I wasn’t here?” She asks as she watches him move about her apartment. 

“Eat all this by myself, I guess.”

She wants to turn him away. She _should_ turn him away. How dare he show up at her apartment with no warning, bringing food around like he owns the place. Like he has any right to be here. Who the hell does he think he is? 

She’s about to slam the door in his face when her stomach makes an ungodly noise. Fuck, she’s hungry and the smell of his food incites a riot in her stomach. When was the last time she ate a real meal? 

He looks up at her with those doe-brown eyes and that smug smile. She doesn’t need his food. She has plenty of food in the kitchen. Food like cereal and toast; totally good food that she definitely enjoys eating… every single day. 

She could always accept the food and kick him out when they’re finished. She can survive one meal with him, right?

Begrudgingly, she opens the door and lets him in.

Gilbert hardly waits for her to step aside before he’s slipping into her room and digging into the bag to hand her one of the bowls. He brought Chipotle. How he knew she loves Chipotle she’ll never know, but she’s not going to ask any questions. It’s been _years_ since she’s had it and as she takes her first bite of her burrito bowl, she downright moans. 

Gilbert chuckles as he digs into his own. 

She waits for him to comment on her room. He was polite the first time he came by, not mentioning the mess or how it pales in comparison to his place. He didn’t ask because it would have been too low a blow to make fun of the girl who he didn’t quite knock up. 

But this time, there’s really no stopping him. At any moment he could look around and say, _Jeez, Anne, this place is a dump_ or _why don’t you live somewhere nicer?_

She braces for it, tension finding her lower neck and holding steady the entire time he’s over. 

He asks her plenty of questions, most of which she dodges and turns into meaningless conversation. But he never asks that. 

When she walks him the whole two feet it takes to get to her door, she decides it’s her turn to ask a question. “Why did you come here?”

“Because I wanted to see you,” He smiles as if that’s a good enough answer. 

It’s weird. _He’s_ weird. 

God, he’s a psychopath, isn’t he? He must be because there’s no other reason he would show up unannounced and bring her food. He’s trying to lull her into a false sense of security and then he’s going to gut her. 

At least there are worse ways to go. 

_________________________

She doesn’t see him again for a while. At first, she waits for him to show up again. She peeks around corners, expecting to see him, and pays a little more attention to her door, expecting to hear him knocking. 

He doesn’t, though. Not that she’s _really_ looking for him. Why would she? It’s not like he’s anything more than a kind of nice guy who she slept with… and held her hand while they sat in the doctor's office. And maybe he’s a little weird and brought her food that one time.

Not that it really matters anymore.

Gilbert Blythe becomes nothing but the wisp of a memory until she stops anticipating and starts moving on. 

Work drags on in a thousand different ways. She spends her days smelling like grease and sweat and her nights wrangling children that don’t belong to her. It’s a busy life, but one she is now almost grateful for. It wasn’t until she nearly lost everything that she realized how good she really has it. She knows the stories of other orphanage girls who got pregnant young. She knows where they ended up and how much worse off they are for it. The weeks after her appointment feel like a second chance, one she’s all too glad to ride the coattails of. 

She wouldn’t have been able to give that child a good life. She wouldn’t have been able to be the kind of mother it would have deserved. 

It wouldn’t have been fair. To any of them. 

_________________________

It’s late when he shows up on her doorstep. Like, _late_ late. Like, Anne shouldn’t even be awake right now late. But she is because she just got home. She hardly even had the chance to change into sweatpants when he knocked. 

Why is he awake? Why is he _here?_

Was he waiting for her? 

People only knock on doors this late for one reason. 

As soon as the door opens, she says “I’m not going to sleep with you,” instead of the traditional _hello, how are you?_ She can’t help the way her hackles go up. Why the hell is he knocking on her door at this hour? What else could he possibly want?

And he has the audacity to look confused. 

“That’s fine? I mean – Anne, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh,” She deflates, letting her defenses down just a smidge. The second he smiles, they go right back up. “Why are you here, then?”

“I brought you food,” He says, cheerily. “Can I come in?”

“At one in the morning?” She can’t help the interrogation. Everything about this _screams_ murder plot except for the genuine look on his face. He looks tired, but friendly. She doesn’t trust it. 

But for some reason, she lets him in anyway. _If this were a horror movie,_ she thinks, _I’d be the first to die._

“Yeah, sorry. The library closed and kicked me out. I wanted dinner and didn’t want to eat alone.”

“So, you came by my place?”

Gilbert nods, that stupid smile still on his face. “You seem like a night owl.”

“Lucky guess,” She says. Then, “What’s with you and food?” She’s not complaining, just like she hadn’t complained the other two times, but she genuinely wants to know. If he’s not here to kill her, then she at least deserves some answers.

“Food is like a language,” He says. She motions for him to sit down and he does. “In my hometown, everyone cooks for each other. It’s pretty normal to pop by your neighbor’s house with something homemade.” 

“And is this homemade?” She derides as he pulls out a bag with a familiar yellow arch on it.

“I think we both know that homemade isn’t really an option from me,” He laughs. She laughs, too, even though she doesn’t mean to. She doesn’t want him to make her laugh – she wants to have the upper hand. 

He passes her a McDouble and fries. 

“Hey, can I use your freezer?” She nods, mostly because she’s curious as to why he would need her freezer in the first place. Then, he pulls out to frosties and smiles. “I wasn’t sure if you liked vanilla or chocolate, so I got one of each.”

It only takes him half a minute to slip out to the kitchen and come back, but during that time Anne finds herself completely dumbstruck. Who is this boy? And what the hell is he doing?

What the hell is _she_ doing?

He settles back into his chair and Anne sits on the edge of her bed. There’s enough space in between them just in case he tries something shady. Slowly, she pops a fry into her mouth and watches as he carefully unfolds his own burger. 

“Sorry it’s been so long,” He says around a mouthful of food. “School.”

Anne nods, unsure of what to say. If she were basing this entire experience on expectations, she wouldn’t be able to pin down what either of them should be doing. Realistically, Gilbert should have dropped her back off at her apartment and driven away. She’s been nothing but awful to him. They never should have seen each other again. At least, not on purpose.

But here he is. Very much on purpose. 

“How have you been?” 

She feels like he’s just talking to fill the silence, but part of her wants him to be interested, so she answers. “Alright. Tired, I guess.”

Her simple words make him beam over at her. “Yeah, same. I feel like I could sleep for a thousand years.”

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the way he’s smiling at her, but she relaxes a bit. She wants to hate him but she can’t find a reason to, especially when he keeps showing up with food and asking for nothing in return. She still doesn’t trust him, but there’s something about him that lets the tension bleed out. Even if it’s just a little bit at a time. 

“Me, too,” she says, hiding her smile behind her food. She should be scared of him. She should be wary that he just shows up at her apartment at odd times. She should turn him away and shut him down. 

But she doesn’t.

And she has no idea why. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Canada has better health care than America but idk anything about free healthcare and for the sake of drama Canada doesn’t either. Sorry. I've also never had children, nor have I had a pregnancy scare, nor have I ever been to a prenatal check up because I am a lesbian. So a lot of this chapter was written through google and bare basic knowledge. For all you out there who have personal experience with this topic and to read this chapter and say, "hey, that isn't right" just know I took a lot of creative liberties
> 
> And to everyone in the comments of the first chapter who were super excited about Anne being pregnant... it was tagged lol. Not that I am upset or complaining - I'm very excited to read any reactions. I am also very excited to keep this fic going. Thank you all for reading and commenting, I love reading all your thoughts so much. 
> 
> If you want to chat, you can find me @ thelazyeye.tumblr.com
> 
> Finally, on a very serious note: things only seem to be escalating in America right now. Between the outbreak and the blatant racism and police brutality, things are extremely difficult to handle. I genuinely hope this fic can help lift you out of this chaos, even if for just a moment. No one is capable of living with being bombarded 24/7 with the horror happening right now. Please, take social media breaks, reach out to friends, find comfort in small things, and take care of yourselves. Donate if you can, if you're going to protest do it safely and consciously, and please consume any and all news with critical thinking and comprehension. Things are not as they seem. The media paints a much different picture than the front lines. Be critical, do your research, support our black community. 
> 
> To my black friends, readers, and siblings please know I love you, I support you and I am listening.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along the line, Gilbert becomes a steady presence in her life.

Somewhere along the line, Gilbert becomes a steady presence in her life. She waits for him to fade like smoke from a dwindling fire, but he remains. Perhaps, if she didn’t indulge him so much he would leave but part of her finds that she enjoys him. Selfishly, can’t help but fan the flame, giving him the oxygen he needs, knowing she’s purposefully encouraging him to stick around. It feels more take than give, seeing as she has little to nothing to offer someone like him, but she rationalizes it with the knowledge that this is only temporary. 

Good things aren’t meant to stick around in her life, Gilbert is simply on a pit stop right now. Sooner than later he’ll be on to bigger and better things. Anne will be nothing more than a speck in a memory of that time he went to med school. She is an unfortunate pothole in the road trip to doctor-hood. 

Still, she laughs at his jokes and participates in his conversations so he continues to come back.

It works, he does.

They talk about _a lot_ of things, and Anne makes sure to keep it that way. From the outside, it looks like Gilbert controls their conversations. He monopolizes them with his opinions and his observations and his ideas. It’s funny though, because he’s not as much of a chatterbox as Anne is introverted. 

However, on the inside it is very much Anne who is in control. She’s not sure if Gilbert has figured it out yet, but every time he tries to broach any topic deeper than what she had for lunch that day, she deflects it. No matter what they end up talking about, Anne is careful to slip in well timed questions and charged opinions that she knows will keep him talking. He already knows more about her than she’s comfortable with – things he learned when they went to the doctor’s together and she thought she’d never have to see him again after. Now, she’s much more careful. 

She learns a lot about him, though. 

Gilbert is a medical student who is on the brink of becoming a doctor. He’s as tired as he is busy, but that doesn’t really stop him from carving out time to see people he cares about. Those people include a brother and niece back home. His niece is five years old and apparently the smartest child in the whole of Canada. She prefers to wear her hair in little twin puffs on the top of her head, something she hounded Gilbert to learn how to recreate so he can do her hair anytime he’s home. 

He asks her about her family, but she’s quick to divert the conversation with an, “Oh, I have no nieces or nephews. I bet it’s been lovely to watch yours grow up,” and he’s off to the races again, gushing about the little girl who waits for him back in his hometown. 

One of his favorite things to unwind with is a movie. He talks about them all the time, ones he’s watched on Netflix or old ones he finds himself repeatedly indulging in. He says that watching old, well-loved movies are like coming home to an old friend. They are a balm on a weary soul in which he can find comfort; they’re a new universe that he can lose himself in when the world around him rages into chaos. 

Anne likes the sentiment, agreeing with him and conveniently leaving out the fact that she watched little to no movies when she was younger. If she wasn’t living in an orphanage with a broken TV and no movie library, she was working her fingers to the bone in some rundown foster placement. 

His favorite color is red. This, she finds out on accident. It’s said in passing when Anne declares that she _hates_ it and Gilbert, gently and unassumingly, says that it’s his favorite. How could he like red the best when there is a limitless spectrum of colors out there is beyond her. This one she can’t quite hold her tongue on, though, and she makes sure he knows what terrible taste in colors he has. 

She learns a lot of things about Gilbert and makes sure he learns very little about her in return. 

_________________________

They don’t text. It’s a little odd, but it works for them. The most either of them sends is a quick question or an incoming, _I’m almost there_ text. 

Mostly, it’s Gilbert who texts Anne but every now and then she finds herself texting him and asking if he’s free. 

It’s one of those rare Anne texts that finds them in their current position: Anne sprawled lazily on Gilbert’s couch and Gilbert himself spready lazily on the floor. _The Social Network_ plays in the background while they talk. 

“You know, I really like Andrew Garfield,” Gilbert says. His voice isn’t terribly focused on anything. It has that wispy quality to it; the one people get when they’re absently picking at their nails or typing something out on a computer. Or, in this case, absentmindedly watching a movie. 

Anne hums in neutral agreement. She’s never seen this movie before, nor any of the ones this Andrew Garfield has probably been in, so she can’t really weigh in any opinions. 

She started going to Gilbert’s apartment roughly a month ago. She made an off-color comment about not having a lot of space and Gilbert, gentlemanly as ever, invited her back to his place. Up until then they’d been cramming into her tiny one-one bedroom and shooting the shit about meaningless things. His visits were always short and he always brought something along to snack on, even if it was just a party-sized bag of M&Ms to share. 

Now, she feels like she’s lying in the lap of luxury. Literally. Gilbert has a _couch_. A big one in which Anne is taking up all three of the cushions on. 

“I mean, just watch him, you know? He’s got the best lines of anyone in the entire movie. I think I quoted _fuck you flip flops_ for two years after this movie came out.”

His words make her snort in surprise. She has no clue what he’s talking about, they haven’t reached that part of the movie yet. She seems to catch his attention because he shifts and angels himself to look up at her. Those damned eyebrows are raised all the way up into his hairline as he says, “Wait, have you never seen this movie before?”

Anne shrugs, not willing to commit herself to the admission. 

“And you let me talk through the entire thing?” Gilbert is sitting up now, voice raised a little bit in what could either be surprise or anger. She can’t really tell. 

“It’s fine,” She says, diffusing him on the off chance it's anger. “I’m good at multitasking. I know exactly what’s happening. The curly haired dude fucked the hot guy out of owning Facebook and now he’s being sued – being sued twice actually. By the hot guy and the twins. And he only made Facebook because he’s an asshole who got dumped. See? I’m paying attention.”

Gilbert shifts onto his knees, unconvinced. “Paying attention and actually watching are two different movie experiences.”

“Whatever,” She snorts. The look on his face is so earnest that she can’t help but tease it a little bit. “Not all of us are movie snobs.”

“I’m not a _snob,”_ Gilbert says, feigning hurt. Anne just raises her own eyebrows in return and whatever Gilbert was going to say is lost to the way he starts laughing. 

“Sorry we can’t all be rich doctors who’ve seen every movie under the sun,” Anne jokes. Gilbert laughs along with her, the same way he always does when she takes a dig at his life. He has everything she’s never been allowed to dream about and she can’t help but tear into him over it. Just a little bit.

Despite his claim that movies should be watched and not talked over, they finish the movie with Gilbert’s running commentary still going. Anne ends up paying more attention to him than Andrew Garfield, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

_________________________

The first time she sees any hint of genuine human emotion outside of happiness, they’re sitting on the sidewalk outside her place. Anne saved up a few tips from work and treated them both to hoagies and a bag of chips. It isn’t much, but she feels proud as she sinks her teeth into something _she_ bought for them. 

“I’m on scholarship, you know,” He says out of nowhere. Mostly, they’d been eating in silence. Gilbert had been eager for his food and Anne’s used to not talking unless spoken to, so she follows his lead. 

But this caught her off guard. There’s something about his tone that makes her feel queasy. Sure, she’s had plenty of people sound annoyed or frustrated with her, but never Gilbert. Carefully, she urges him to continue. 

“What?” She’s dimly aware of how rude she sounds. She should be congratulating him, but for some reason a smile feels like the wrong thing to be wearing. 

“Scholarship. I’m not paying for med school out of pocket,” He clarifies. She still isn’t sure what he means or why he brought it up, so she shoots him a curious glance. He takes another bite of his food, chewing and swallowing before he continues. “I’m not rich, like you seem to think I am. Really, I have no idea why you think that in the first place. I grew up on a small farm. We didn’t have a lot, but it was enough. My entire family was dead by the time I was eighteen and there wasn’t an inheritance or a savings account to fall back on. It’s just me, my farm, and my scholarship. It’s not much, but it’s enough.”

“Oh,” She says because she doesn’t know what else to say. Gilbert’s sudden honesty leaves her feeling both anxious and settled at the same time. For some reason, she finds comfort in the fact that he doesn’t come from riches or wealth, but she also feels guilty for assuming he did in the first place. 

Guilty because she knows the pain of being all alone in a world like this one. 

“Yeah,” He says. It doesn’t sound like the end of the conversation. It sounds like he wants more from her, but she doesn’t know what to give. 

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask,” His tone is suddenly harsh. “So whatever assumptions you’ve made about me, quit it. It’s not fair. I didn’t make any assumptions about you.”

She’s quiet both in words and feelings when she says, “I’m sorry.” 

And she is. At this point she almost feels like crying. Gilbert has only been this radiant and kind person, even in the face of the greatest mistake they almost made. But now, he sounds like everyone she’s ever known. And it’s her fault. She got too comfortable. Those jokes were too far, she should have known better. 

This is it. This is the moment where he leaves her, sitting on the sidewalk with a half-shared bag of chips and two hoagie wrappers. Her entire chest hollows out at thought. She’s always known this was temporary, but she never expected the end to be so _sudden._ She hasn’t had time to prepare. She hasn’t had time to fill the spaces he’s going to leave behind. How is she supposed to –

“It’s alright,” He says, suddenly sounding like Gilbert again. “Just... know that there’s more to people than meets the eye.”

When she’s sure he’s not going to get up and walk away, she looks over. Gilbert’s taking another bite, munching happily on the last bit of his hoagie and that seems to be the end of it. When he looks over at her, he sends her a gentle smile. 

Why does she feel so god damn scared? Why does he make her feel so god damn vulnerable without even doing anything?

She takes a shaky breath and does the only thing she knows how to do when she starts to feel like she’s drowning. She deflects. 

“If you don’t have any money, why do you keep buying me food?” She says through a sorry attempt at a laugh, pushing at him with her shoulder. He sways to the side a little before using his slight momentum to nudge her back. 

“Because I like you, Anne,” He says, like it’s the simplest answer in the world. That doesn’t make her feel any better. 

She doesn’t say anything else because she doesn’t know what else to say, so they sit in silence and finish the chips together. 

_________________________

Sometimes she regrets letting him into her life. Normally, he’s not that bad. Most of the time they’re sharing their shitty taste in music or he’s shoving some weird indie movie down her throat, but sometimes – _sometimes_ she wishes she never met him. 

Right now is one of those times. 

“Give it back to me _right now_ ,” She seethes. Her teeth are grinding together so tightly she’s worried she’s going to snap an incisor. Along the edges of her vision, she’s seeing red. 

“Not until you tell me what it is.”

Does he really have to be an entire foot taller than her? Does he _really_ have to be looking down at her with that _infuriating_ look on his face? Like, really, is that necessary at all?

She’s given up trying to grab for it. It’s embarrassing enough that she would have to stand on her tippy toes and the fact that she _still_ can’t reach his hand is only the nail in the casket. She _won’t_ make a fool of herself by trying to jump. 

Maybe she can bring him down to her level…

“C’mon, Anne, it can’t really be that bad!”

“It can be and it is. Not to mention it’s _old_ so it’s not like it even matters anymore.”

“Oh, hush. You and I both know that old words are some of the best!” He flashes her another grin before shifting his arm as if he’s about to lower the journal down. She matches his movement as if she’s going to lunge for it and then it goes right back up in the air. “You’ve got these things scattered all over your room. You can’t possibly expect me not to be a little bit curious!”

“I _can_ and I _do!”_ She shouts. She can’t help her voice from raising. She can only imagine the dark shade of red her cheeks are, inflaming her freckles and clashing something nasty with her hair. She can’t bring herself to care, though, not when Gilbert is waving one of her journals around and teasing her. 

“Is it a diary?” He asks. His voice is a little bit curious, like her answer will determine his next move. 

With her arms crossed and her chest puffed out, Anne is an unmovable object. Unlucky for her, Gilbert is an unstoppable force. “No, it isn’t a diary. Now give it back.”

Gilbert makes a noise crossed between a laugh and a grunt, quirking his eyebrows down at Anne in a way that sends her blood into a raging boil. “Nope.” He makes sure to pop his _P_ in the way he knows Anne finds annoying. 

She’s going to skin him alive. 

“Gil!” Anne cries. It comes out a little more pathetic and a little less angry than she intended, finally breaking under his constant teasing. “You’re being mean.”

“I’m not trying to be.” He immediately lowers his arm fraction, eyes going soft on her words. “I’m only teasing you.” His eyebrows come together in a deep crease on his forehead as he lowers his arm to gently cradle the journal to his chest. He looks like he wants to reach out to her, but he doesn’t. Smart move on his end because she’s about ten seconds away from biting his head off. 

Anne finds herself unable to believe his words, no matter how gentle and soothing they are. She wants to believe him, but it just doesn’t make any sense. Why would he be behaving like such an asshole if he wasn’t trying to be mean? Why would he taunt and tease her so ruthlessly and with something so _personal_ if he wasn’t trying to get under her skin?

His words say one thing but his actions say something completely different. She’s used to this kind of treatment. Somewhere deep inside her chest, ancient memories of a time she’d rather forget rattle around. Shrill laughter and mocking voices. Books held up high and out of reach. Punishments way too severe to justify for the crime of reading and writing past bedtime. 

The sting of a belt buckle is suddenly fresh on her skin. 

The fight begins to burn out of her, then. Storm clouds are coming in off the horizon and with them, a wave of fresh hurt. When she blinks he’s not Gilbert anymore. He’s a blurry face and a sinister voice, looming over her in the shadows of the asylum. Her heartrate kicks up and she feels energy hum through her arms and legs. He’s not standing in front of the door, so if she’s quick she can make an easy escape. And if he catches her, she knows how to bring her knee up with just the right amount of force to temporarily incapacitate him. She could… 

No. 

A swift pinch to her wrist brings her back down into reality, back down into the ground beneath her feet. He is Gilbert again, still wearing that infuriating smirk but maybe just a little softer around the edges. Not that she notices. 

“Here, let’s strike a deal. I’m not going to read your journal, I pinky promise. But in order to get it back I want to at least know what’s in it.”

“What happens if I refuse to tell you?” Anne snips. This feels like a lose-lose type situation. He’s trying to play her like a fiddle and it’s not going to work. She’s smarter now than she was back then. 

“I don’t know,” Gilbert hums. “I was kind of bluffing.”

Somewhere in his kind smile, Anne finds an opening. With her leftover adrenaline, she darts forward, shoving his shoulder with one hand and grabbing the journal with the other. It succeeds in knocking him slightly off balance and while he stumbles she tears the book out of his hands and shoves it up under her shirt. Gilbert at least has the presence of mind to look a little shocked before bursting out into laughter. “Man, that was slick! I guess you win.”

Damn right she does. 

Later, after she forces him to face the wall so she can hide every single journal under her bed, she asks him, “Were you really not going to read it?”

“No way. Not unless you told me I could. I’d never do that to you.” 

She lets the silence blanket them, content to mull over his words for a while. She has no reason to believe he’d go against his word, especially after he gave it back without a fight. Or, well, after he let Anne forcefully take it from him. If he wanted to, he could have shoved her away and read it. But he didn’t. Why didn’t he?

“I used to write,” She confesses, surprising both of them. “A long time ago. All the books are filled with half-finished stories.”

He doesn’t say anything, but when she glances over she can see him looking at her. Those god damn eyes. Maybe if she ignores him hard enough, they’ll stop lighting little fires into the side of her face.

_________________________

The leaves turn, and along with them so does the weather. The late summer where Anne and Gilbert first met has dissolved into a late Autumn that trades shorts for hoodies and iced coffee for hot lattes. Or, in Anne’s case, hot tea that she makes herself. Tea kettles are overrated and an unnecessary expense, one she doesn’t have the cupboard space for, so she uses a normal sauce pot that holds just enough water for a decent cup. 

She swipes the tea from her diner, but no one needs to know that. People hardly order tea there, anyway, so Mr. Andrews doesn’t really pick up on the missing product. It’s one of those things that gets ordered in bulk and slowly chipped away at over the course of a few months. It’s not worth doing legitimate inventory on, so Mr. Andrews normally forgets about it until one of the servers informs him that they’re almost out. By pure coincidence alone, that server is typically Anne. Who is the one drinking all the tea. 

But, again, no one needs to know that. 

Especially not Gilbert, who sits next to her with the hot drink that he picked up from the café down the street. 

They’re sitting on a bench near Gilbert’s campus. Anne has found herself with a few hours to kill before the Hammond kids got out of school and she was the first to get cut from the diner. Business has been slow since the chill has moved into Halifax, and Anne has found herself with less and hours. There are moments where she thinks about using this extra time to pick up another side hustle, but she goes through this almost every year. By the time she works out the details and thinks about committing to a second waiting job or maybe something temporary down at the café, spring is close enough to taste and she can weather a few more tight, bitter weeks. 

Gilbert has found an hour to spare between his classes. In a rare moment, one of his lectures ended early and so he texted Anne his usual _you free?_ to which she replies _don’t you have other friends?_

Apparently, he does not because he meets her on the bench not even fifteen minutes later. She has no reason to believe he does because she’s never met any of them, but she’s also the less than stellar addition to his life so she wouldn’t be surprised if he was keeping their friendship under wraps. 

Still, he seems to spend all of his free time pestering her. From what she’s gathered of his schedule, he’s either in class or in the hospital doing some kind of rotation. Whenever he’s home he’s not really home – he’s more than likely in the library pouring himself all over some poor, unsuspecting medical textbook. Or worse, some poor unsuspecting leisure reading. 

It’s hard not to be envious of his endless energy and dedication. It’s been a long time since Anne has read anything. 

“Have you read Little Women,” He asks, seemingly out of the blue. They’d been quiet up until now, trying to chase away the autumn chill with their beverages. While Anne knew Gilbert was next to her, it was easy to get a sort of tunnel vision for the world around her. The bench they’re on sits directly across from a park so she has an endless view of the reds and oranges that define the season. This is the only time of year she enjoys reds and oranges so much. They become such common colors that she’s able to forget about the curse of red on her own head. The leaves allow her to blend in with the world around her. Silent and unassuming, the way she prefers to be.

“No,” Anne answers. She hasn’t, but she knows it’s one of those books she would have liked when she was younger. The library in the orphanage only had older books. They were the only ones that seemed to last because the kids didn’t enjoy too much. They were too old, too complicated and hard to understand for any of her peers to take interest in them. And, because they were never read they were never destroyed. Unfortunately for her, Little Woman didn’t live on those shelves. 

Jane Eyre, however, did. Pride and Prejudice, as well. Anne spent _hours_ between those pages, finding new worlds where she could be Elizabeth Bennet finding her Mr. Darcy. How she longed for someone to bicker with until slowly, agonizingly, and completely falling in love with him. She longed for happiness within the tragedy of romantical love – a high-waisted fantasy in which she spent the years of her youth lost in. 

It seems foolish, now, how she wanted those things so badly. They were impossible and impractical. With age has come new fantasies. Meager, humble ones about having her own place to live with food in the fridge and maybe a cat to keep her company. When she was young, she used to wonder how horrible and lonely life without love was. Now, she could spend her entire life without love and be content, as long as she lives comfortably. 

“Well, you’ve got to read it,” Gilbert continues. “I have a spare copy in my apartment. When you finish it, we can watch the movies together.”

“And why do you think I’d want to do such a thing?” Anne asks. She both does and doesn’t mean it.

“I don’t know,” Gilbert hums, “It just seems like the kind of thing you might be into. Tragic love and sisterhood women chasing their dreams. It’s a good story. It’s _real_ , like you are.”

She shifts uncomfortably as his words. 

_Real._ He thinks she’s real. 

She can’t remember the last time she felt real, but with her now cold cup of tea and his burning words, she feels it. Just a little bit. 

_________________________

As autumn fades into the bitter sting of winter, Anne finds herself working harder just to keep the heat on. In the summer, she’s more than content to lay around her room with no shirt and a pair of shorts to keep cool. She’s got a desk fan to turn on when needed and it uses the bare minimum of electricity. But winter? Winter will be the death of her. Sure, she could always layer on sweater after hoodie after long sleeve after shirt, but it does little to quell the draft that swoops in under her door at night. More often than not, turning the heat on becomes an absolute necessity. 

She’s been meaning to buy more blankets, but she can never afford them in the winter and by the time summer comes around she doesn’t want to waste her money on something that isn’t immediately useful.

It’s an endless cycle of never having the things she needs when she needs them. 

So, with her skyrocketing electric bill, her desperate need for new winter pants, and the way the food service industry tanks during the winter, she finds herself working herself into the ground. No one wants to come out to a diner in December, so tips are shit and hours are short. She picks up as many extra shifts as she can, sometimes trading her waitressing apron for a kitchen apron as she scrubs dishes for an extra few dollars. 

As the Hammond kids get closer and closer to winter break, she finds herself elbow deep in elementary school math equations and dirty diapers. When homework is done and the kids are all fed and bathed, she sits down and works on crafts with them. Little handmade trinkets to sit either on top of or underneath the family christmas tree. The pay is shit there, too, because _it’s almost Christmas, dear, and we’re trying to get the kids some toys to open. You understand, don’t you?_

She does understand. As much as she dislikes Mrs. Hammond, those kids are too young to feel the bitter string of disappointment. She can sacrifice a little of herself for them. She’ll help make Christmas ornaments and knick knacks so, for one day out of the entire year, they can have a happy Christmas. And she’ll try with every fiber of her being not to be resentful because of it. 

Maybe she would find Christmas a beautiful holiday if she ever had anyone to spend it with.

When she goes home, it’s to a freezing bedroom that she can hardly afford anymore. 

_________________________

Anne needs a break. She needs a miracle. Something – _anything_ \- to cut the tension in her body. A good tip, a kind voice, hell she’ll even settle for a perfunctory smile at this rate! 

Every single customer – every single one – has been an asshole. The food is too hot, the food is too cold, her voice is too annoying, she’s taking too long, she’s rushing them. She can do anything right and she feels like tugging out her hair. 

And to top it all off, the boss’s son is working today. She can barely handle her tables as is, let alone with some brute barking at her every time she enters the kitchen. 

She’s going to pull her hair out. She’s going to go play in traffic. She’s going to... 

She’s going to kiss the gods! Through the small rectangular window that separates the kitchen and floor area, she sees her. 

Her all-time favorite customer. 

Anne closes her eyes and prays that the hostess will sit Diana in her area. She needs a win today or she might seriously quit. 

Her eyes crack open just in time to catch Diana being led back to the far corner of the diner. Directly into Anne’s area. She makes a mental note to thank whatever blessed her with this miracle as she skips out and meets Diana at her table before she has a chance to sit. 

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite customer!” She chirps, catching Diana by surprise. 

“Anne! Oh, I had hoped you were working today,” Diana smiles, taking her seat and pulling her laptop out.

This is Diana’s routine. She comes to the diner once or twice a week to study, day and time varying. After she gets settled into a booth, she’ll pull her computer and textbooks out and make an academic spread across the table. She will likely spend the next two to three hours here studying or working on an assignment, which Anne will ask her about if she’s lucky enough to be her waitress. 

She’s learned over the course of the last year that Diana is in graduate school, working toward her Master’s of Business Administration so she can take over her father’s business. She isn’t exactly happy about it, but she was never really given a choice. If her parents were going to pay for her education, Diana was going to major in the area of her father’s choosing. And that choice was business, despite the fact that it sucked the very soul out of his daughter’s body. 

Diana is the sweetest, most wonderful, most _beautiful_ girl Anne has even met. She seems like something out of a fairytale, too beautiful to be real and too nice to be true; but after months of getting to know each other she has never once faltered so Anne has no choice but to trust that Diana is the real deal. 

At first, Anne was a bit smitten with her favorite customer but the infatuation quickly passed and she found herself longing for nothing more than a genuine friendship – one she was certain they’d find in any other circumstance. Still, she’ll take what she can get in their one-sided relationship. 

A waitress and a customer, slated to be server and served. 

Anne has already put her order in: a cup of coffee (black, two sugars) and a blueberry scone with jam on the side. 

“What’s on the agenda today?” Anne asks, forever fascinated by whatever Diana is studying. She never got a chance to attend school herself and thirsts for any new knowledge she can get her hands on. She’d go and get it herself if she wasn’t so goddamn tired all the time. Lucky for her, Diana is more than happy to go over her recent schoolwork with Anne. It helps her study, she says. Lucky for Anne, multitasking is something she prides herself on so while she scribbles orders and makes coffee she tries to learn from Diana by simple osmosis alone. 

Diana lets out a long, withering sigh in response before saying, “Anne, I am simply exhausted. I have two analyses due on Friday and a financial advising exam the following Monday. I hardly have time to eat, let alone study!”

“Good thing you can do both here,” Anne says, feeding her a cliché smile that’s more genuine than one she’s given any other customer today. 

“Yes, it is,” Diana laughs. “What’s new with you?”

Anne won’t lie to herself, she’s dreamt of being able to tell Diana about what’s been happening in her life. It’s just... not appropriate. She’s at work and Diana is a patron of the diner, not a real friend in whom she can confide. So, she swallows down the honest answer and smiles sweetly. “Just the usual.”

“Oh, come on. I’m dying here, give me something exciting! If I have to look at one more spreadsheet I might die.” 

“Well,” Anne says, glancing around to check for Mr. Andrews or his son. When she sees the coast is clear, she leans in close and says, “I met this boy.”

It’s as close to the truth as she’ll go. She’s already toeing the unspoken boundaries of a workplace relationship, she won’t push her luck. She won’t divulge anything that might make Diana uncomfortable – like pregnancy scares and drunken one-night stands. 

Diana, however, completely lights up at Anne’s words. “A boy? Oh, you have to tell me more. Won’t you sit with me, just for a moment?”

She hadn’t realized the implications that her causal words carried. _A boy_. What was she thinking? Diana’s eyes are filled with a curious kind of mirth and her lips are turned up at the corner, eager for gossip. Anne has never once wanted to be the center of any kind of gossip, but now she’s backed into a bit of a corner. Gilbert is simply just Gilbert and she will set that right, just as soon as she finds a spare moment to sit and talk with Diana.

And talking might be kind of nice. 

She glances behind her shoulder again, but this time she isn’t so lucky. She can see the boss’s son pushing the kitchen door open and stalking out into the dining area. “Sorry, Di, maybe next time. I’ll be back with your coffee in a moment, though!” She chirps. Diana sends her a disappointed look, the kind of pout that’s probably resulted in many victories in the past. It compels Anne to lean in and whisper, “I’ll tell you a bit about him while I pretend to take your order.”

Diana smiles and lets Anne disappear back towards the hot drinks. It doesn’t take long to make the coffee, but during the journey back she has the misfortune of coming face to face with the least respectable person in the entire establishment. 

“Billy,” She greets, pointedly avoiding his eyes.

“God,” He scoffs as she tries to slip past him, “You’d think my father would have let you go by now. Everyone knows hot waitresses are the ones who bring in the big bucks. You’re probably _losing_ the diner money.”

Anne doesn’t dignify him with a response, but she does feel the hot creep of embarrassment crawl up her neck. She can feel his eyes on her back as she walks back to Diana, leering and waiting for her to take one step out of line. 

_Sorry, next time_ , she mouths as she puts the coffee down. She points over her shoulder to the brute watching them. 

Diana just smiles and rolls her eyes. “It’s alright. Next time.”

But as Anne walks away, she feels nowhere near alright. Billy’s words burn into the back of her brain more than they should and for some reason, all she can think about is honeycomb irises.

_________________________

She doesn’t see Gilbert during his Christmas break, but she does find a small, wrapped present sitting outside her door one night. The guilt of it all creeps in through the edges, permeating her armor and making her want to whither into nothing at all. He wasn’t supposed to get her a gift. They never talked about that! She doesn’t have anything to hand him when he returns to Halifax for the start of spring term. And even if she knew what to get him, she wouldn’t be able to afford it. 

She doesn't open it until sometime after the new year. 

It’s a new journal, leather bound and heavy. It probably didn’t cost too much, but Anne knows it’s more than she ever would have spent on herself. 

Inside, he left an inscription. 

_For when inspiration strikes._

_~Gil_

It also makes her feel warm inside, which she hates. 

She hates a lot of things about Gilbert Blythe. Especially the way she doesn’t seem to _really_ hate him at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a hot second and I am sorry about it! This fic seriously morphed into something way bigger than I intended it to be and fleshing out the new scenes and vibes of it has been hard with what I already had written. I'm not promising the next chapter will be out any time soon, either, because I still have to build a lot of it and mesh it with what I planned. But it's happening, folks, it's getting done. 
> 
> Thank you for all the support on this fic (and others)! It means the WORLD to me. I hope you enjoy some relationship building with a spattered bit of backstory from Anne. And we've met Diana!! I'm still not sure how big of a rile she's going to play in this fic but she's here and we love her. 
> 
> Please drop a comment if you're so inclined to give me thoughts, predictions, validation, nonsense, or whatever you're so inclined to do. 
> 
> Come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://thelazyeye.tumblr.com/) and on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/thelazyeye1)! And please, if you’re so inclined, drop a comment and let me know what you thought!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she’s not stealing sleep, Gilbert is stealing time.

Spring rolls quickly over Halifax and before Anne knows it, she’s got more on her plate than she knows what to do with. It’s a startling contrast to winter, when she felt as though she were drowning in her inability to meet her own needs. Now she is constantly on the move. If she’s not at the diner, she is scrubbing the bathroom at the Hammond’s or helping one of the kids with an essay. If she is not doing either of those, she’s stealing little moments of sleep where she can get them.

When she’s not stealing sleep, Gilbert is stealing time.

“You know what I love about spring?”

“Hmm?”

“Everything is coming back to life. It’s so beautiful – like the Earth and trees and animals are all breathing again. The color bleeds back into the gray world, vanquishing the demons of winter.”

Gilbert studies her for a moment, considering her words. “You don’t like winter, then?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s beautiful, at first. But it’s cold and wet and _dead_. I can only handle that for so long before I feel like I’m dead, too.”

They walk with their hands shoved into the pockets of their hoodies. It’s _finally_ warm enough to go outside. It feels like it’s been forever since Anne has had the time or energy. As the winter yielded to spring, the exhaustion of work, work, _work_ settles into her bones and she has little desire to do anything. 

“Dead is a strong word. I prefer sleeping, like things are waking up after a long nap. All of those things, the grass and animals, have been here the whole time.” Gilbert gestures to the grounds as if to emphasize his point. Green flourishes along the path they’re following through the park. It feels like it was just yesterday that little patches of brown were peeking out through the slush, teasing what was to come – what is here now.

“I wish I could sleep for that long.”

There’s a persistent heat building on the tops of her cheeks. She doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but she can’t take it back. What’s said is said. Gilbert, thankfully, doesn’t make a big to-do about it. He just hums in agreement and reaches down to pluck a dandelion from the grass.

“For you.”

“Oh, a weed. How thoughtful,” Anne jokes.

Gilbert smiles something soft and kind in return. “To some, it’s a weed. But to me? It reminds me of the sun and sky.”

“But they’re invasive, taking over entire fields and yards. And they’re so _common_. Dandelions are everywhere.”

“And so is the sun. Calling them weeds is just a way to place judgment on them, don’t you think? I prefer to enjoy them for the beauty they have. It’s not like I can change where they grow, right?” He plucks another one, this time stepping close to Anne and taking one of her twin braids in his hand. Gingerly, he threads the stem through the twists, pulling ever so slightly until it’s positioned how he wants it. “There, now you have the sun in your beautiful hair.”

Anne refuses to admit that she blushes at his words. No one has ever called her hair beautiful before. Homely, horrid, and hideous, sure, but never, ever beautiful.

She shoulders past him and presses on, escaping out of the park and onto the sidewalk. Gilbert follows, and together they make their way into the bookstore near his apartment. She loses him in the poetry section and makes her own way over to romance and fiction. There, she finds gold. 

It’s been a long time since Anne allowed herself to have something so new, something so _pretty_.

 _Little Women_ sits heavy in her hands, hardcover with elegant, flowing script denoting the front of it. Vines wind down the spine and edge out onto the front and back covers, gold plated and shining from where the sun hits through the window. It’s beautiful, and with a little coaxing from Gilbert she’s agreed to buy it.

Something new, something so damn _pretty_. 

She’s so caught up in it that she doesn’t hear Gilbert the first time he calls her name, only catching on the second, or maybe third time, when he comes up behind her and nudges her with his elbow.

“Sometimes,” Gilbert whispers, “I think about what would have happened if we had her.”

It takes Anne a second to register his words, another to process them, and a third to put the pieces together and figure out exactly what he means. By the time she’s run through the process, he’s taken a deep breath and speaks again. “You know, if she was real. She’d be here by now.”

His words leave her stunned. They feel so random, catch her so off guard, when she turns to meet his eyes she realizes this must be something he’s been thinking of for a while now.

Of course she thinks about it, too, but never once did she ever think about _voicing_ it. It’s too heavy to voice. It requires her to be open, _vulnerable_. It scares her that he can just do that. That maybe she’s expected to do it back, and in broad daylight no less. 

Bookstores are no place for these kinds of conversations, so instead she changes the subject. “Do you want kids, Gil?”

“Yeah,” He says, easily flowing with the change. “I have a niece back home. She’s getting so big. She lives on our orchard with my brother.”

Gilbert pulls his phone out and scrolls for a second before showing Anne the cutest child imaginable.

She gets her smile from her uncle. Her eyes and nose, she gets from her father. Her ears, though, she gets from someone else. Someone not in the picture.

“Bash and I met when I worked for a cruise line the summer before college. I started right after my dad died. I was meant to meet him. He’s the family I was meant to find.”

There he goes with that vulnerability again. It makes Anne’s skin crawl, but it’s not all bad. It pulls her in, just a little more. Just enough to lean forward and, in an act of bravery, ask, “What would you have wanted to name her?”

Gilbert doesn’t hesitate when he says, “Mary.”

_________________________

Anne Shirley does not have a crush on Gilbert Blythe. That’s not what this is. Those little bugs fluttering around in her stomach? Those are just ants or something, pests that she needs to call an exterminator on. A little poison control and she’ll be back to normal in an instant.

Except that they always seem to multiply when he’s around. They’re infesting her body, her veins and arteries and lungs, crawling all over her and making her act so completely out of character. It’s his fault, too. There is no one else to blame in this situation besides him.

He put these ants inside of her. He’s the reason she’s become so… _so childlike._

Lately, Anne spends her days at the diner with her head in the clouds and her nights scribbling away in her journal. She feels so full of ideas that she might burst if she doesn’t get them all out. It’s maddening. _He’s_ maddening.

And yet, when he knocks she still answers.

They’re walking through the park, the same one they always walk through, when he asks, “Anne?”

The toe of her shoe catches on a rock and she kicks, sending it bouncing a few feet in front of them. About eighty percent of her attention is on that rock, the other twenty on Gilbert, so she only replies with a simple hum.

“Can you tell me something?”

“What would you like to tell me?” She asks, distracted as they catch up with her rock and she kicks again. Sometimes it’s easier this way, to only pay him half attention. She doesn’t do it to be rude, but to keep herself sane while they’re together.

“No,” He laughs, unbothered by her lack of attention. “Can _you_ tell _me_ something?”

This catches her attention, so she stops and gives him a meaningful look, the kind that lets him know she’s paying attention now. “Sure, what do you want to know?”

“Anything,” He says, walking on and motioning for her to follow. She does. “Something personal.”

“Why do you want to know something personal?” The day around them is beautiful as spring continues its march forward. The feel of the warm sun on her skin directly contradicts the way her insides tighten at his request.

“Because we’ve been friends for a while now and I realized I don’t know much about you.”

“You know plenty,” She says. “You know what music I like and that I write. Those are two pretty important things.”

She pokes his side when she says it and he laughs, humoring her attempt at diverting the conversation. “What was your childhood like?”

Her stomach churns. As much as it pisses her off that she can’t say no to him, she still can’t say no. “Alright.”

They walk on for a little while longer and Anne is grateful he doesn’t push her to speak. She has gone from playful and joking to quiet, hands shoved deep in the pockets of her sweatpants. She knows for a fact that she doesn’t have a crush on him because in moments like this, she absolutely hates him.

She hates how vulnerable and small he makes her feel with just a simple glance; or how he asks all the wrong questions at all the right times.

She hates everything about him.

 _Especially_ how he makes her feel like she can tell him anything.

“I’m an orphan. You know that already,” She says, recalling when she spilled that detail at their prenatal checkup. As they reach the thickest part of the walking path, the gravel bends in a deep U that brings them back and around to the other side of the park. It is here, in the deepest section of Ruhr city’s little man made forest, that Anne tells Gilbert the truth about her life. “I was born in Bolingbroke but lived most of my life in the orphanage on the other side of town. I’d get placed out sometimes but always made it back there. I aged out once I hit eighteen and I’ve been living on my own ever since. I don’t know anything about my parents except the fact that they died when I was three months old. Car accident.”

“Oh,” Gilbert says. Anne chances a look at him to see his eyes on the ground, lips curved down in a frown. “I’m so sorry, Anne. I didn’t know.”

“No shit,” She laughs. “Why would you know that?”

“I don’t know,” He sighs. His hand runs through his hair before settling at the back of his neck. He looks uncomfortable. Usually, when people look at her like this she only gets annoyed. She doesn’t want to be pitied, but with Gilbert it feels different. “I just – I shouldn’t have been so pushy and made you talk about it.”

“It’s fine,” She says. “You didn’t make me do anything.”

They continue to walk in silence for a few moments. Gilbert makes no effort to change the subject. He looks as though he’s still absorbing the information, so she lets him. It can be a lot to take in. “What was the orphanage like?”

“Oh, you know.” But he doesn’t know. He has no reason to know and his eyes burn with a tempered curiosity. “Heavy handed, I guess.”

He gives her another stricken look, the kind that tells her exactly how horrified he is, and Anne decides it's time to talk about something else. She can tell he wants to know more, but he doesn’t need to. That part of her life is long gone and if the details get fuzzy, well, she’d prefer that over remembering.

Gilbert follows her lead and as she steers the conversation back to more lighthearted territory. The rest of their walk passes quickly and before they know it they’re on Anne’s street

“Hey,” He says once they reach her door.

“Yeah, Gil?”

He reaches out and tugs on her sleeve before he says, “Nice shirt, _carrots_.”

She almost hits him then and there, but then his words actually reach her ears. Heat floods her face and she looks down, realizing with horror that it’s _his_ shirt she’s wearing.

The one from the very beginning.

The one she accidentally walked out with, back when Gilbert just a notch on her belt.

When she slams the door in his face, she can still hear his belly laugh on the other side.

_________________________

If she had it her way, Gilbert never would have found out what she does for a living. But, as luck would have it, he is one of the many faces to push through the diner doors one Saturday. The dining area is too small for her to avoid him, but she still tries to duck behind a pillar before he can catch sight of her in her horrible yellow uniform.

Why Mr. Andrews chose _yellow_ of all colors for the waitstaff, she’ll never know. It’s too bright and loud and clashes with her hair more than any normal outfit would. She looks like some sorry combination of ketchup and mustard, for Christ’s sake.

She manages to hide for all of sixty seconds before she is beckoned over by one of her tables. Maybe if she can slink over there and tend to their needs, she’ll be able to make it back to the kitchen without him noticing…

She only gets halfway through her half-baked plan, caught red handed on her way to the drink dispenser.

Their eyes catch at the exact same moment and Anne can feel the ground open up and swallow her whole. This is not happening. This _cannot_ be happening.

“Anne!” Gilbert calls out, waving excitedly. “Anne! Hey – sorry, excuse me.” He fumbles into the hostess, apologizing as he makes his way through the diner. “You work here?”

She can only nod, words caught in the thick pool of embarrassment building in the back of her throat.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I love this place! I haven’t been here in months. If I knew, I’d have come sooner.”

She burns an ugly shade of red, the kind that clashes with her hair and makes her tuck her chin against her chest. Gilbert coming down here and watching her wait tables sounds like a specific brand of hell. Maybe she died and she’s somewhere down below, toiling for her sins and wishing she had lived a holier life.

A quick pinch to her inner wrist quickly disproves that theory.

“I can’t believe I finally know where you work! This is fantastic.”

Anne can hardly see what’s so fantastic about this.

“You know, we’ve known each other for months now and I didn’t know where you worked. How did I never ask you? Wow, I’m a bad friend, aren’t I?” He laughs and scratches the back of his head.

“Clearly,” Anne laughs, a hollow sound. She swallows the fact that he _has_ asked her before and she didn’t tell him.

She glances over her shoulder to the table she was getting drinks for, readying herself to say goodbye to Gilbert and wallow in her own misery for the rest of her shift when the hostess makes her way over, clearly bored with the lack of other patrons. “Want me to sit you in Anne’s section?”

Yep. She’s in Hell.

“I would love that!”

She _must_ be.

After a forced smile, she gets her other table’s drinks and circles back around to Gilbert. He looks like a cat who’s caught the canary, all boyish smiles and eager eyes. “What can I get you?”

“Water is fine,” He says, eager to talk about anything other than his order. “How long have you worked here?”

“We’re coming up on a year in July,” She answers, writing his drink order down just to keep her hands busy and her eyes off of him. “Do you need a minute to decide?”

“I’ll have the pancakes,” He says, no hesitation anywhere in his voice. She peaks over her notepad to find him beaming at her. “With chocolate chips and whipped cream.”

“Ugh,” She groans, “You have _such_ a sweet tooth for a doctor.”

“ _Future_ doctor,” He corrects. “Besides, it’s a reward.”

“And what’s the occasion?”

He leans down, hunching over the table and beckoning her to join him. She wants to say no, _really,_ she does but when he juts his bottom lip out ever so slightly she finds herself sitting down and leaning in, too. “A reliable source has informed me that I’ve been graced with the end of midterms. I figured, hey, I should treat myself.”

“You don’t even know your grades yet.”

“I don’t need to. If I passed, they’re a prize and if I fail, they’re a consolation prize.”

His smile is infectious and soon she’s laughing along with him. They’re so close that she can feel the way his breath ghosts across her cheeks with every chuckle. It feels intoxicating to be so close. If either of them we’re to lean in, even just a little bit –

“Shirley!” A voice booms from the backroom. Anne damn near jumps out of her skin, standing and knocking her knees against Gilbert’s table in the process. The kitchen doors slam against the wall with the force of how hard they’re opened. “If you want to sit around and chat all day, I’d be happy to give your hours away to someone who actually wants to work them.”

“Sorry, Mr. Andrews,” She mutters, jamming her notepad in her apron before folding her hands neatly in front of herself. “Chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, would that be all, sir?”

“I don’t pay you to flirt with my customers,” Mr. Andrews continues as he gets closer. He glances between Anne and Gilbert, neither of them laughing nor looking at each other anymore. “I pay you to _work_.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry,” She repeats. Her entire face burns and she sucks in a deep breath that she silently chokes on, tears threatening to build.

“I swear, you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” He sneers. “I wonder if Prissy wants a couple extra hours this week.”

“Please –” Anne starts, ready to beg when she’s cut off by Gilbert standing up.

“It was my fault, sir. Don’t punish her. I didn’t mean to distract your employee and disrupt your establishment. I wanted to tell her something and asked her to sit down. She _told_ me she couldn’t and I didn’t listen, insisting she sit with me for a moment. It won’t happen again.”

Anne closes her eyes and swallows every lump that’s been building in her throat for the past ninety seconds. Mr. Andrews doesn’t look convinced from Gilbert’s speech, but he relents either way. “ _Don’t_ let it happen again.”

Then he’s gone.

“Anne,” Gilbert tries, but she only shakes her head. She fixes her eyes to the swirling pattern of his table, refuses to look at him.

“Don’t. It’s alright. I’ll be back with your water in a moment.”

She takes her time putting his order in, lingering in the kitchen to wrap some silverware and fill a few shakers; checks on all of her other tables before circling back around with his food. When she says, “Enjoy,” it comes across as empty and emotionless.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in any kind of trouble before,” says Gilbert. The weight between them feels heavy and thick.

“It’s alright.” She still can’t look him in the eyes so she doesn’t catch any kind of reaction he has. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

She makes her way back into the kitchen, scolding herself for the way she peeks through the small mirror on the door. She won’t admit to anyone that she’s disappointed in how he’s staring at his food and not the space she used to occupy.

_________________________

“Why did you run out?”

Gilbert’s living room is cast in gentle shadows from the single lamp he has on. It’s just enough to illuminate _Little Women_ , allowing Anne to devour its contents greedily while she steals away at his apartment after work. It was late when she arrived, but she knew he’d be awake and pouring over some textbook or another.

It’s been over a week since the incident at the diner, but that is still the first place Anne’s mind goes.

She looks up from her place at the foot of his couch. Her book falls open in her lap, pinky finger securing her page so she doesn’t lose it. “Hmm?”

“I woke up and you were gone,” He continues, as if they're on the same page. They’re not, and she makes sure to tell him just that.

“Gil, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m right here.” She turns to face him only to find him lying back along the length of the cushion, eyes closed with one arm draped over his chest while the other rests somewhere above his head. His body looks comfortable, but his face looks distraught, eyebrows pinched tightly together and lips quirked downward.

“No,” He murmurs, voice thick with sleep from where he was apparently napping above her. “That night. You know, the one that started this whole thing.”

There are a million ways she can respond. They’re way too close to build any new walls between them, but she can fortify some of the ones she already has. So, she laughs and says, “Have you never had a one-night stand before?”

Gilbert grows so silent she thinks he’s fallen asleep again before he can finish the conversation he started. Suddenly, she wants to roll over and do the same. A wave of exhaustion washes over her and she grabs a sticky note from his table to mark the page of her book before shutting it. She makes herself comfortable on his floor, using his discarded hoodie as a pillow to rest her head on while she stares at his ceiling.

“No,” He finally says. 

“Oh,” Is all she can say because _oh_. He hasn’t. Never once did it occur to her that he hadn’t done that before. That she was his first.

A haunting thought occurs to her.

“Gil, have you ever?”

“Yes, Anne, I have,” He laughs, voice thick with sleep. “Just never like that.”

Thank god.

For reasons she doesn’t quite understand, she goes back and humors his original question. “That’s how one-night stands work. You sleep with someone and they leave.”

“Do they always leave before you wake up?” He asks.

“No,” She answers because maybe they don’t. She sure some people stick around until daybreak, but that must be horrifically awkward.

“Do you always?”

“Yeah.”

He waits so long to speak again that she almost falls asleep. “I wish you hadn’t.”

And even though she’s awake, it’s better to pretend she isn’t.

_________________________

She’s not sure how he does it, but he talks her into a trip in the middle of spring. He smooth talks her into taking a day off from the diner and tricks her into his car, overnight bag packed and anticipation thrumming through the engine. God, if cars were powered by anxiety alone she would be able to get them to and from Avonlea ten times over. The skin that surrounds her thumb has been picked raw in a desperate attempt to calm herself down, but it isn’t helping. Not even Gilbert’s steady voice has he makes idle conversation helps.

Why did she agree to this? Now she’s stuck in a car with him for over an hour only to go to some farming town in the middle of the island where she won’t be able to leave. This has to be one of the stupidest things she’s ever done. A night with Gilbert? Sure, whatever. She crashes at his place all the time, that's nothing new. A night with Gilbert’s _family?_ What the hell is she thinking? She’s going into some stranger’s house with no escape, with no game plan on how to high tail it out of there when things go south.

What if they don’t like her?

“And Dellie is getting so big,” Gilbert chatters from the driver’s seat. “I feel like every time I see her she’s grown another six inches, she’s like a bean sprout. A _smart_ bean sprout. I’ve never met a kid as bright as her. And she’s funny! But watch out, she’s a ball of endless energy and once she ropes you into playing a game with her there’s no getting out of it. You’re stuck for _at least_ two hours.”

The open highway begins to transition to an ever thickening tree line until they’re surrounded by dense woods. Gilbert mentioned Avonlea was tucked inside of nature, a small pocket amidst the growing infrastructure of PEI. Anne might find it beautiful if she could get her head out of her ass.

They must be close. It’s like they’ve been transported back in time. The woods begin to open up into little swatches of farmland in a way that reminds of her of a period drama. The metal car they’re riding in feels uncomfortable and misplaced among the scenery and Anne thinks they’d be better suited to ride in a horse and buggy than Gilbert’s sedan.

“And the food! Don’t get me started. Hazel, Bash’s mother, lives with us and is an _amazing_ cook. She’s from Trinidad and makes food I can’t even pronounce the name of.”

He’s still talking, eyes bright as he watches the road. His anxiety contradicts her own. He is excited where she is nervous, fond where she is wary, steady where she is loose. Gilbert Blythe is all of the things she wishes she could be, sometimes. All of the things she wishes she could have. And now she’s about to catch a glimpse into one of the most intimate parts of his life.

What the hell has she done?

They turn onto some community roads not a moment later and before Anne can get her wits about her, Gilbert is pulling up the long, sloped driveway of his property. She knew he lived on an orchard, but she didn’t realize he meant _literally_. There are apple trees _everywhere,_ deep green leaves canopying the side of his yard and extending back in a floating sea of emerald blades. It’s not apple season yet, but she can imagine the way little orbs of red and yellow decorate the landscape. She can imagine Gilbert out among them, reaching into the sky and procuring fruit for the harvest. Again, she feels as though they’ve regressed a hundred years into the past.

The climb up the hill to his house is both long and impossibly quick, and so Anne suddenly finds herself standing at his front door, bag in hand. The house itself is old, built with uneven bricks that have been well loved over the past century. Mindlessly, she reaches a hand out and traces it back in time through history, feeling the rough stones under the pads of her fingers.

Gilbert doesn’t have time to locate his key on his lanyard before the front door swings open and an older, black woman stands on the other side of the screen door. She looks stern, hands on her hips and lips pursed into a _no-nonsense_ pucker. Anne shrinks back at the image of it, not scared of the woman, per say, but what she represents. Especially with a wooden spoon clutched in one hand.

“You’re late,” She chastises. Her voice is thick with her Trinidadian accent and even though Anne was expecting it, it catches her off guard. “Wanted to keep everyone waiting, did you? I swear you boys have no sense of time.”

Anne shrinks back just a little further, grateful for the way Gilbert stands in front of her. She can’t see his face, can’t get a read on the situation and already she wants to leave. She hasn’t even been here for ten seconds and she’s already witnessing a family squabble.

“Hazel,” Gilbert warns, letting the silence stretch out for another moment before he finally replies to her. Dread fills the pit of Anne’s stomach as she waits for him to speak. “I missed you, too!”

Well, that is not at all what she was expecting.

Hazel rolls her eyes and suddenly she looks less intimidating and more exasperated. The screen door opens and Gilbert envelops her in a hug that she happily returns. “This house is quieter without you driving me up the wall, I’ll have you know.”

“I’m sure Bash still gives you plenty to worry about,” Gilbert teases back. They hold each other at arm’s length for a moment before Hazel notices Anne standing a few steps back. She whacks Gilbert’s arm with the spoon and says, “Are you not going to introduce me to your friend? I taught you better manners than that.”

“Sorry,” He says, rubbing the afflicted spot before turning and opening his arm for Anne. She steps forward just enough for Gilbert to wrap his arm around her and hold her steady. It feels as though he’s anchoring her back down to Earth and for that, she’s grateful. “This is Anne.”

“Hello,” Anne says, voice polite yet still stiff. Hazel regards her for a moment, smiling kindly before stepping out of the way and beckoning them inside. 

The inside, if possible, is even more beautiful than the outside. It’s all finished wood flooring and walls, giving the house a rustic feel. Everywhere she turns, it looks lived in. From the blankets on the back of the couch in the living room to the toys left in the hallway. As they make their way further in, Anne can smell some of the food Gilbert was gushing about. It smells divine and sets the beginnings of hunger deep in her belly. Hazel leaves them to it, returning to her pot on the stove and urging Gilbert to show Anne to the guest room.

They get about halfway through their tour when they hear the front door open and close again, the noise in the house doubling as what Anne presumes is Bash and Dellie arriving home.

She can hear quick, frantic footsteps rush through the downstairs and a little voice yell, “Where is he? I saw his car, I _know_ he’s here!”

Those footsteps speed up the stairs and suddenly there’s a blur of thick, dark braids flying past her and crashing into Gilbert.

He falls back onto Anne’s assigned bed with an _oof_ and then the room is filled with laughter. “Uncle Gilby, I’ve missed you so much! I can’t believe you’re finally home, you've been gone _forever._ ”

“I’ve missed you, too, Delphine. Oh, so much.”

Anne stares at the two of them, wrapped in each other and smiling. For all the smiles she’s seen Gilbert give, this one is unique in a way that is reserved especially for the little girl in his lap.

He peers at Anne over her head and says, “I want you to meet my friend.” Suddenly, the laughing, wiggling girl is no more as Delphine becomes still in Gilbert’s arms. “Come now, Dellie, she’s really kind. I pinky promise.” Then, to Anne, “She’s a bit shy with new people.”

“Hi,” Anne tries, sitting on the bed next to them. Dellie burrows slightly into his chest, peaking out at her and giving her a wary stare. “My name is Anne. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Instead of answering, Dellie once again hides. So, Anne continues, “This is a beautiful home you have here. Such wonderful trees in your yard. And the paintings on the walls!” When she has Dellie’s attention, she gestures to the colorfully drawn stick figures and apples hanging over by her desk. “Did you do those?”

Dellie nods, coming out to say, “Miss Spurgeon asked us to draw our family for class last week, daddy said I could hang it in my room.”

“It’s _wonderful_ ,” Anne smiles. “I’d love to hear about it, if you’d like?”

That’s all it takes for Dellie to jump out of Gilbert’s arms and retrieve the picture. She launches into a full tale of her family, speaking at length about her father and grandmother before informing Anne that _Uncle Gilby_ is her best friend and she loves when he comes home. Gilbert watches fondly, smiling gently as his niece regals Anne with tales of her family. That is, until Dellie comes to the very edge of the picture where a grey stone is purposefully drawn. “And this is mommy. She’s in heaven, but daddy and I go out to her stone and talk with her all the time. He says that she’s always with us even if we can’t see her, so I drew her stone so everyone in my class knows she’s here!”

She says it with such bright, childlike innocence that Anne almost forgets to be sad.

“What was her name?” Anne asks Gilbert, once Dellie scuttles off to wash her hands and get ready for dinner.

A mournful look crosses his face, but it’s gone in an instant – replaced by a smile so soft and genuine. “Mary.”

It doesn’t take much to connect the dots.

Before Anne can say anything, someone walks up to the door and the light from the hallway is shadowed in his figure. Anne startles, eyes darting to Gilbert who looks up and smiles fondly. “Bash, good to see you, brother.”

“And, you,” Bash says distractedly. His eyes are settled on Anne instead of Gilbert. “So, you must be the mysterious Queen Anne.”

He relaxes against the doorframe and Anne once again glances between the two men before saying, “Just Anne. No royalty here, sorry to disappoint.”

Bash hums, finally averting his gaze to Gilbert, who seems to shrink back into the bed as he avoids the stare. “I see, _Just_ Anne. You must be quite fair and noble, then.” Anne laughs, caught off guard by his quick retort. She isn’t ready for the way his words make her feel, as if she is anything more than plain old Anne pretending to be royal amidst the lives of this family. Already, she feels both welcomed and out of place.

“I think you’ve been spending too much time playing princess with Dellie,” Gilbert teases, but Bash just waves him off.

“How you got such a pretty young lady to be your friend, I’ll never know.” Bash shakes his head, relishing in the way Gilbert’s demeanor shifts from smug to embarrassed.

_“Shut up.”_

Bash surrenders and leaves, letting them know dinner will be ready in fifteen.

And just like that, in one sweeping motion she has met all of his family.

_________________________

“What I would have given to have grown up in a place like this,” Anne says. Dinner has come and gone, conversation passing jubilantly across the table. It was bright and fun and all of the things Anne has never known a dinner to be. If she’s being honest with herself, she thought those kinds of dinners only happened on television. Never once did she consider real life to be the one where two brothers tease each other good naturedly while a mother figure watches on; or, where a little girl prattles on about school and everyone listens in rapt attention.

Or, one where a kind face asks her how her day is going, asks about her life and what she fills her time with and _actually_ cares about her answer.

“It was lovely,” Gilbert replies. They’re sitting in the living room, Hazel having retreated to her room for the evening and Bash helping Dellie get ready for bed. The sun has yet to set, daylight savings time giving them an entire extra hour to watch the sun sink beneath the horizon. It’s got a long way to go, and for that Anne is thankful.

“I know. I look around and I can see you in every corner of this house.” She means it. She can see him sitting in the living room and at the kitchen table because she has witnessed it with her own eyes, but she can also see him in the orchard, out by the fences, shaving his face in the bathroom. Resting, rejuvenating, laughing with his younger self. This house is so very well lived in that unclaimed memories flood her senses. “It’s so well loved.”

“I was well loved, too, I suppose,” Gilbert smiles. It’s the fond kind of smile that comes with remembering. Maybe he’s seeing himself in all the nooks and crannies Anne can see him in.

“You were. I can feel it.”

A quiet kind of still falls over the room, interrupted only by the sound of soft footsteps from overhead – a sign Bash has put Delphine to bed and is trying his best to remain quiet. Anne both does and doesn’t listen, lets herself get lost in the feelings this place provides. By simple osmosis alone, Anne finds comfort in the walls of the Blythe-LaCroix homestead.

When Gilbert speaks next, he is cautious yet firm with his words. “You deserved to be well loved. I’m sorry you weren’t.”

Whatever comfort Anne was feeling dilutes. “It’s in the past.”

He leaves it at that, content with saying his peace and being done with it. To distract herself, Anne runs her fingers over the pillows on his couch. All over his living room, there are little pieces of personality. The pillows, she decides, are the most fascinating. Not because they’re particularly fancy or ornate, but because they’re so obviously handmade. Or, at least, hand embroidered. The stitching is neat, yet personal. There is something so _human_ about each pattern that adorns the slew of pillows scattered around the room. Some of them have bright flowers, others swirling patterns with no discernable direction. The one closest to her has a butterfly on it, purple and large with green accents around the edge. One of the stitches is uneven, making it both imperfect and flawless.

“You know, you remind me of this one place down the road,” Gilbert says, seemingly out of the blue.

“I do?”

“Yeah. There’s something about you that matches it. I couldn’t put my finger on it when we first met and, if I’m being candid I wasn’t trying to. It wasn’t until after everything, when we started hanging out that I figured it out.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s called Green Gables. We shared a property line.”

“Green Gables?” Anne laughs. She can’t help it. “I didn’t know homes with names still existed. It’d be like calling my house something ridiculous like Patty’s Place.”

“I know what you mean,” Gilbert smiles, taking no offense to her joke. “It’s nice, though. Will you let me take you there?”

It’s about a twenty-minute walk to the fence that borders the house. They cut through the orchard and follow a well-trodden path through the woods before coming out on the Cuthbert property – what Gilbert called it. They have to walk quite a bit to get from the trees to the fence, but Anne doesn’t mind. She likes the stretch in her legs.

When she first sees the house, she thinks it’s quite wonderful. The paint is white and there is a green roof and shutters that stand out in stark contrast to the creamy exterior. She sees where it got its name from. There are bushes out front and a tall tree that offers shade to the windows at the side of the house.

But as they get closer, she starts to see it for what it truly is. The white paint is dirtied from rain and wind, the green roof and shutters fading without anyone there to take care of them. The windows are empty instead of full, the way she feels it ought to be. And the bushes out front are wilted and thin, not full the way they looked from the woods.

The house is dying.

“It used to be so beautiful,” Gilbert says as they come up to the fence. His voice is sad – sadder than she’s ever heard it before. She wants to comfort him but she doesn’t know why he’s sad in the first place or where to start, so instead she does the only thing she knows how to do.

She asks questions.

“What happened to it?”

“The owners died. Their names were Marilla and Matthew, brother and sister that had lived here their whole lives. Matthew died of a heart attack when I was in high school and Marilla passed when I was in college. The property belonged to their family for hundreds of years and neither of them had spouses or families, so no one inherited it. And in this the year twenty-twenty no one wants to buy a farmhouse and land, so it never sold. It just sits here.”

The two of them stand at the fence for what feels like hours but is probably only ten minutes. Gilbert points out the chicken coup, the barn that used to have horses and cows, and the beautiful cherry tree located next to the east gable.

“You know how you said you could see me in my house?” He says, and she hums in affirmation. “I can see you here, growing up next to me. It sounds weird, I know, but I feel like part of you belongs here.”

Suddenly, she can’t bear to look at the house anymore. She turns her back to it, leaning up against the fence and crossing her arms. Maybe in another universe, she could have grown up here and been happy. She could have been loved.

It hurts too much to think about it. She wishes she could turn back time and plant her feet in the soil. She wishes she could take root in this small town and feel herself blossom into someone different. Maybe with the nurturing hands of two loving parents she would have been able to bloom instead of wilt. She’d have a future to look forward to instead of a past that holds her back.

Gilbert turns around to match her stance and they stare out at the trees and dirt paths that line the property.

“Bash will be looking for us,” She says, pushing off and walking down the way.

Gilbert follows.

The rest of the evening passes easily enough and Anne finds herself almost wishing they had more time come morning. She has already kissed Dellie goodbye and shook Bash and Hazel’s hands, thanking them for their hospitality. Now, she watches as Gilbert does his rounds. And by rounds, she means holds a crying Dellie as she begs him not to leave.

It’s endearing and painful to watch, reminding her of all the things she never got to have. It wages a war inside of her that she doesn’t want to fight. Bitterness and longing rivaling happiness and wonder.

She is happy Gilbert has these things. That he got to have a childhood with his father and now fills his home with even more love and laughter. But she is also something else, something darker that she doesn’t want to feel, let alone name. Why couldn’t she have these things? Why didn’t someone scoop her up the way Gilbert now holds Delphine? The way Bash once held him?

Why her?

“Anne, are you alright?” Bash asks, stepping slowly toward her. She hadn’t realized she’d pressed herself up against the doorframe and with his attention drawn to her, she feels like a cornered animal both figuratively and literally.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Is all she manages to squeak out before she hastily grabs the door handle and all but falls out of the Blythe-LaCroix residence.

The morning air is still crisp, dew layering the grass outside and wetting the bottom of her pants. It relaxes her lungs and lets them expand in ways they couldn’t inside that house. It felt so _stifling_ in there. She’d never been surrounded with so much… _warmth._

Her feet only carry her a few yards into the front lawn when the door cracks open and she hears someone softly call out to her. She doesn’t need to turn around to know who’s standing on the doorstep.

“Everything okay?” Gilbert asks, stopping only once he’s right beside her. She glances at him for a moment and then looks up at the sky. It's clearer in the countryside.

“Yeah,” She says. “I don’t mean to rush you. It’s just,” She pauses, considering her next words carefully. Her emotions sit on her tongue and for the first time, she isn’t overwhelmed with the urge to chew them. So, she says, “I’m not used to… _this_.”

“I get it,” He says. She’ll never really understand how he always knows just the right things to say, never bordering on too much or not enough. Gilbert’s presence alone is grounding, his simple words a balm to her old wounds. “I’m ready when you are.”

She imagines she’ll never be ready to leave a place like this, no matter how strange and out of place she feels. Still, reality waits for them a few hours away and if they don’t go now, Anne will miss her shift in the evening. “Let’s go.”

They’re quiet on the ride home, with coffees in hand and music playing lowly between them. Anne doesn’t mind so much, because as she watches blurs of green and brown speed past her window, she allows herself to _feel_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: writes a bunch of smut and then bombards you guys with THIS disaster
> 
> I'm back! I'm so sorry for the wait, this story spent a lot of time morphing into something I didn't intend for it to be, so when I went to write it I found myself very jumbled up and didn't know where I was going anymore. I needed time to sit down and figure out who this story is and what I was trying to accomplish with it. I think I have it all settled now. I have chapter 5 written and all I need to do is edit it so the wait won't be nearly as long. I suspect it will be a total of 7 chapters if things go the way I want them to go. Maybe 6 with an epilogue. We'll see what ends up happening! For now, I hope you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> Does Canada have daylight savings time? I’m genuinely not sure and I didn’t google it so if it doesn’t, it does now. Yet another obnoxiously American thing I’m inserting into this Canadian storyline. Which, again, I’m sorry. I draw a lot of my details out of my own life/experiences, so much so that things like daylight savings don’t even register in my mind as something I should look up and by the time I realized it, I’d already written the scene and didn’t want to deconstruct it to move things around. 
> 
> Please note: the tags have been updated. Please read them and continue with this story with caution. We explore some dark themes and I don't want to accidentally trigger or harm anyone with this story. Anne has had a difficult life and abuse, poverty, and pain are cycles that she has gone through post orphanage that get touched on (not in explicit detail, but it's there). 
> 
> Please drop a comment if you're so inclined to give me thoughts, predictions, validation, nonsense, or whatever you're so inclined to do. I love hearing from everyone!
> 
> Come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://thelazyeye.tumblr.com/) and on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/thelazyeye24)! And please, if you’re so inclined, drop a comment and let me know what you thought!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had she known… well, things would have gone differently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for implied abusive relationships. If you wish to avoid that, skip the whole section about Roy

It’s strange, when worlds collide.

For a while, Anne was perfectly capable of keeping her two lives completely separate. In fact, she prefers it that way. There’s no universe in which she would be able to maintain a collision. So, when she bumps into Diana in the grocery story she isn’t quite sure how to behave. There is no schema or script to follow, no orders to take or food to run. Anne feels like a fish out of water, mouth agape and eyes wide as Diana calls her name and rushes down the pasta aisle to give her a hug.

The first hug they’ve ever shared.

Diana shrieks and sways them back and forth for a moment before pulling away and holding Anne at arm’s length. Once she sees the startled expression on Anne’s face, she steps back entirely. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I'm just so happy to see you outside of _that diner_. God, you look so cute in casual clothes!”

“Hi, Diana,” Anne says because she has no clue what else to say or how to conduct herself. Diana is a radiant ball of kindness and sunshine and Anne is... well... Anne. Which means it’s time for awkward small talk. “How are you?”

She’s a bit worried that she’s going to have to ask about the weather or something mundane just to keep social pleasantries, but Diana surprises her. 

“Better now that I’ve seen you!” She beams. The honesty in her voice surprises Anne and she smiles without meaning to, a big one that takes up most of her face. Diana has that effect on her.

“Are you busy right now? Well, obviously you are,” Diana gestures to the sparsely filled basket tucked in Anne’s arm. “But if you’re free after this we should get coffee or something.”

The gears inside Anne’s head skip and freeze. Getting coffee with Diana would be a daydream manifested. They would be without interruptions, no one to boss Anne around or rush Diana out the door to free her table up. They could sit and laugh just the way Anne always daydreamed.

But would it even be possible? Diana looks so earnest and excited, and as much as Anne wants to match her in those feelings, something else edges in around the sides. Anne is Diana’s waitress, not her friend. That dynamic is easy to maintain, but this is uncharted territory. What if...

What if Diana sits down with Anne – the _real_ Anne – and decides she doesn’t like her? The one saving grace she has would be lost forever. The diner would go from bearable to bleak.

But then Diana bats her eyes and how could Anne possibly say no?

“Alright,” She laughs, a little breathless sound, “Sure. Right now?”

“I’ve got to check out,” Diana says, motioning to her own basket. Anne nods and follows her over, pays in dollar bills and loose change while Diana swipes a fancy credit card at her own register. She pretends not to notice how different they already are and hopes against all else that Diana doesn’t notice.

Before she grabs her bag, Anne makes sure to count the leftovers in her wallet to make sure she can even _afford_ a coffee right now. After her little incident at the diner, shifts have been slim and Anne has found herself picking up an extra night with the Hammond’s just to compensate. It isn’t much, especially with Mrs. Hammond’s habit of miscounting her wages.

If she can even call them wages, really. She’s a glorified, overworked babysitter.

Diana flashes her a smile and leads them out of the store and down the main road, turning left and then weaving through two alleyways before coming out onto a side street. Two doors down, Diana directs her inside a hole in the wall named _Pye’s Pastries._

It’s small, quaint in a way Anne never thought she’d find in Halifax. Original art decorates the walls, resting beautifully against the pastel paint pallets that were so obviously handpicked. It’s a mom and pop type shop, one that must do well for itself if the prices on the menu board are anything to go by. 

This is going to run her dry of the rest of her grocery money.

There’s no line, so the girls make their way right up to the front. The cashier waves at them, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Diana, back again?”

“Your coffee is addictive.” Anne watches as Diana presses her palm to her cheek and winks, “I’ll have a vanilla flat white and Anne will have…?”

Anne’s eyes flicker from Diana, to the cashier, to the board. The drink menu is short and sweet, completely dwarfed by the assortment of baked goods that are available. It’s a bit overwhelming and, if she’s being honest, it reminds her of one of those indie films where the girls go out for freshly baked croissants to cry about the boys they love. Silly and unrealistic, yet something Anne _almost_ wants.

“Hello?” The cashier calls, snapping her out of her thoughts. She looks annoyed at best and suddenly Anne feels a prickle of embarrassment crawl up her spine. For what, she doesn’t know. The list is endless.

“Sorry,” Anne says. “I’ll just have a coffee.”

The cashier rolls her eyes, but begins to punch in the order anyway until Diana stops her. “Wait, Anne, you can’t just get a _plain coffee_. We could go anywhere for that. You need to try their specialty drinks, a latte or maybe a macchiato.”

Both of those drinks sound expensive. Her wallet has never felt heavier in her pocket, which is funny considering how empty it is.

Diana speaks again before Anne can get her bearings about her. “She’ll have a mocha. You like chocolate, right?” Anne nods. “Good, it’s settled! Can we also get a coffee cake?”

It all happens so fast that Anne can’t stop Diana from swiping her card. That prickle of embarrassment turns into a full on throb. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Hush,” Diana laughs, “Don’t get all proud on me, Anne. You wait on me every single week, the least I can do is buy you a single coffee. Besides, this was my idea!”

Anne can’t and doesn’t want to make a scene, so she takes her drink from the cashier turned barista. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” She says, then turns to Diana. “Take a napkin, I’m tired of cleaning up after you.”

“That’s Josie Pye, don’t mind her. We went to school together when we were kids. She’s always been a bit of a sourpuss but she’s got a heart of gold. You know, beneath the miles and miles of snark and sass.”

“I heard that,” Floats out from the back kitchen where Josie has since disappeared.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Diana emphasizes through a playful smirk, “I’m so glad we get to sit down and talk for real!”

“Me, too,” Anne agrees. They settle into a small table tucked against the window. Even though she feels nervous, this is something she knows she can pretend at. Anne is good at flipping the script, channeling the focus onto anyone but her. “How’s school going?”

_“God awful.”_ And Diana is off to the races. Anne has always known about Diana’s complicated relationship with her family, and by proxy her career path, and every time Anne hears about it her heart breaks for Diana. She reminds her of a caged bird, wings clipped at the insistence of the very people who are supposed to encourage her to fly. Sure, they have her best interests in heart but at what point does future quality of life supersede current quality?

“They’re my family,” Diana says in the middle of her rant. “How can I go against them?”

These are things Anne might never understand. She has no family, thus no understanding of how a family unit functions behind closed doors.

“I must sound like such a spoiled princess,” Diana finishes. “I have everything I could possibly want and yet I’m crying in a bakery about how my life isn’t perfect.”

“No.” Anne may not understand family, but she understands not having the things you so deeply desire to have. One of those things is looking Anne straight in the eyes. “It’s okay to want something and be upset when you can’t have it.”

Diana’s hand reaches across the table and grasps Anne’s. “Thank you.”

“What is it you want, Diana?” Anne asks, suddenly wanting to know what it is Diana would do instead.

“Music.” There is glitter in her eyes when she says it. “I played piano my entire life. My private instructor told me I was good enough to play professionally, but I couldn’t get my dad to let me audition for anything bigger than the school band.”

_Piano_. Anne bets Diana’s fingers create the most wonderful sounds. She can hear little symphonies ringing out in the space between her ears, familiar sounds she’s heard on her walk to work in the summertime.

“You know,” Anne says, lips curling into something sly. “There’s a local orchestra in Halifax. What if you auditioned? If you can’t have music as a career why not keep it as a hobby?”

The glitter in Diana’s eyes explodes into a thousand sparkles as her face lights up. “Anne! You’re a genius!”

They talk for a while longer, coffee gone cold as they look on Diana’s phone for information about the orchestra and hash out the finer details of her audition. It makes Anne feel like a child, hidden away from her parents and plotting something she’s not supposed to be doing.

It’s _fun_. Being with Diana is _fun_ and easy in a way she never imagined possible. Anne can feel her entire body light up with the joy it produces.

When Diana asks if they can hang out again soon, Anne finds herself agreeing without hesitation.

________________________

When she gets home, she finds a blank page and begins to scratch out a story about a princess locked in a faraway tower, separated from the life she was meant to live. It doesn’t end happily – none of her stories have ended happily in years – but Anne finds herself longing between the pages of her leather bound journal in a way she hasn’t since she was a child.

________________________

Diners, Drive ins, and Dives sure has the right idea when it comes to finding little holes in the wall. The pub they’re in smells strongly of beer and pretzels, but the food is _immaculate._

The entire thing would be immaculate, too, if it wasn’t for the shadow that suddenly hangs over their shoulders. 

“Well, if it isn’t Anne Shirley,” Comes from behind Anne. The voice is familiar, too familiar, and it sends an icy chill down the length of her spine. She can hardly suppress the shudder than tries to follow it, her hands gripping the seat of her chair in an attempt to override her body’s automatic reaction.

She doesn’t turn around to face him, eyes glued to the menu in front of her. Gilbert looks up from his own menu and she watches as he looks at her, and then above to where Royal Gardner is standing only one foot away from the back of her chair.

For a few seconds, no one says anything. No one moves. Anne doesn’t even breathe for fear of disrupting the fragile environment of the pub.

She forgot Roy frequents this side of town.

Gilbert is the first to speak. It’s a wary, “Hello?” followed by a pointed look in Anne’s direction, which she pretends she doesn’t see.

Roy ignores him entirely, choosing to focus solely on Anne. “Are you going to ignore an old friend, Anne? Don’t be so rude.”

He chuckles but his words denote no humor. Stiffly, she turns to him and gives him a tight-lipped smile. She watches as his eyes flick from herself to Gilbert, insidious and plotting. Then, as if someone flipped a switch, Roy becomes sickeningly charismatic. “It’s been so long, _too long_ if you ask me. How have you been?”

For the sake of maintaining appearances, Anne continues her forced smile and follows it with forced words. “I’ve been fine.” It’s the bear minimum of polite interaction, and she can hardly stomach doing it. Because she leaves little to no opening to continue the conversation, they lapse into another short silence. Roy’s smile does not falter.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Anne clenches her jaw so tight that she swears she can feel her teeth buckle under the pressure. “Roy, this is Gilbert. Gilbert, Roy.”

Gilbert, previously observing the interaction in front of him, takes the cue to reach his hand across the table and shake with Roy. There’s some sort of tension radiating from the action and when they both withdraw, Anne can see the thread that ties the three of them together come alive with electricity.

“Pleasure,” Gilbert says. His voice is tight in a way no one would notice if they weren’t listening to it.

“Likewise,” Roy responds. He’s infuriatingly close to her now, pressing himself against the back of her chair and placing his hand around her shoulders to get her attention. He’s crowding her, boxing her in so she has nowhere else to go. “I was thinking, we should get together sometime and catch up, like old times. I’ve missed you coming around.”

His words send a bucket of ice spilling into the pit of her stomach. To everyone else in this bar, his words are innocent and friendly. But to her – to _them_ – they hold the kind of meaning she doesn’t want to think about. Not here. Not in front of Gilbert.

She never wants him to see this side of herself, even though it is the very first version of Anne he met. It’s the version she wants to take steel wool to and scrub from the face of the Earth.

“I’ve been pretty busy,” She tries, shrugging his arm from around her shoulder. He goes willingly but still hovers a bit too close for comfort. At this point, she can barely look at Gilbert anymore. “I got a second job and it’s really keeping me on my toes.”

“I see,” Roy chuckles, easy and lifeless at the same time. “Well, I don’t want to occupy what little free time you seem to have.” He turns to Gilbert then, a snake of a smile curling around his lips. “It was nice to meet you. Maybe the three of us can get together soon, have a little fun.”

He sends a wink to Gilbert, unashamed and for everyone to see. It’s _then_ that Gilbert grips his pint glass so hard Anne fears it might shatter. The moment is frozen and stifling and then suddenly over.

Roy is gone as quickly as he came.

“Jesus Christ, Anne, where the hell did you meet that guy?” Gilbert spits. He makes no effort at hiding the venom in his voice the way he tries to hide his expression behind his beer. The tone of it sets her on edge in a way she doesn’t like.

She isn’t quite sure how to answer his question or if she’s even supposed to. She ends up saying, “Around.”

“It seems like you knew each other pretty well.” He at least as the decency to look surprised as his own words, muttering out a quiet _sorry_. The fries they ordered to split are sitting cold between them.

Gilbert Blythe is not a stupid boy. This, she knows as fact. Not only is he pursuing a life of medicine, which requires a brain bigger than she has the capacity to imagine, but he’s quick on his feet with her. He knows Roy is more than just some sleazy stranger hanging around pubs. Realistically, she has two options. She can tell him the truth or…

“People fall in love with the wrong people sometimes, I guess.”

She goes with option two. A watered down and stomachable version of the truth, leaving out the finer details of the decisions she made and the punches that were thrown, the way they fell back together time and time again even after the end burned to ashes.

“You loved him?” Gilbert asks. His voice is careful and curious but his eyes are scrunched and drawn. She looks away.

“No, not really. I loved the idea of him, but not him.” She, too, is careful with her words. Picking and choosing which parts of the story to tell. In the end, the shorter the better, there are less lies that way.

Gilbert either isn’t interested in the full story or is too distracted to inquire, because he picks at a cold fry and chews on it thoughtfully. He looks far away from himself right now and Anne hates it. Of all the Gilbert’s she’s come to know, she likes this one the least.

Finally, he says, “Still, even the idea of him is terrible.”

She either laughs from relief or from the blunt hilarity of his statement, but either way she laughs. A full-on belly laugh that throws her head back and comes from the base of her stomach. Hers draws a laugh out of him and soon they’re both chewing on the insides of their cheeks to avoid smiles. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

The mood seems to settle after that. It’s easier and familiar, the kind that she’s come to know with Gilbert and never wants to change. He’s _easy_ to be with, fun and carefree with a little something else mixed in that she doesn’t want to put a label on. It’s _enough_ , more than she’s ever had in her entire life. She doesn’t want the comfort she feels with him to be tarnished by the skeletons she’s locked in her closet.

The only things she ever got from sleeping with Roy were a few wayward bruises, shitty sex where she didn’t even get off, and a hollow chest that rattles when her heart beats. It was addictive, somehow, the way he hurt her. It didn’t matter how he did it or why, because he always stuck around. The pain was better than feeling nothing. It was better than being alone.

But as she sits down across from Gilbert and watches as he jams fries up into the space between his upper lip and teeth, making a sound that definitely resembles a dying walrus, she can’t help but wonder if there are other options besides pain or nothing.

She leaves the bar first, Gilbert’s keys in hand while he pays the tab and uses the bathroom. The parking lot is illuminated only by a couple street lights and Anne is thankful that he parked close so she won’t have to navigate the cement jungle within the dark. She spots his car and makes a beeline toward it, flipping through his keys until she reaches the correct one.

“He looks shiny,” Comes somewhere from her left, tucked around the corner against the wall of the restaurant.

She doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Comes out hot and bitter, slick like the sludge she cleans out of the drains at the diner; dirty like the mud she’s spent her whole life being pushed into. It makes her feel wild and uncontained in the ways she hates being, because it is in those moments she gets into the most trouble.

“Oh, you know. Just that I’ve seen this act little before,” He hums, sounding completely disinterested and yet so unrelentingly curious. He’s baiting her and she knows it. She won’t bite. “How long have you been together, anyway?”

Gilbert’s keys are cold where the metal digs into the palm of her hand. They remind her that she has a task to do.

“What? Too good to talk to me now? You were so polite at dinner I hardly even recognized you.”

_Unlock the doors, Anne. Unlock the doors and climb in. Start the car like Gilbert asked you to._

Roy steps fully out of the shadows, figure looming over her. He’s closer than she wants him to be and she can practically feel the heat of him on her back. Against her better judgement, she turns around. Her head has to tilt back to see his face.

“Just wait until he sees through your little charade. He’ll be gone in a second,” He sneers, bending down to whisper in her ear. Unconsciously, she steps back until she’s pressed against the side of the car, trapped with nowhere to run. “And then you’ll come crawling back to me. Just like you always do.”

“Fuck you!” She spits. There’s a sick sense of satisfaction that washes over her when Roy leans back to run a hand down the side of his face. The look he gives her is dark and unforgiving. It’s the same look she sees in her nightmares. “It’s not like that with him. He’s – he’s – we’re friends, Roy.”

She curses herself for tripping over her words.

“I can see the way you look at him, like you want to devour him whole. You’re gonna chew him up and spit him out because that’s who you are at your core. Your hands don’t hold things, Anne, they break them.”

“Anne!”

“Leave, right now,” Anne hisses. She gets her hands on the front of Roy’s shirt and pushes. He hardly budges, but it’s the message behind the shove more than the shove itself that means anything. Roy gets the hint, turning to face Gilbert and giving him a polite smile before wishing them both goodnight.

Gilbert is in her space the next second, hand on her arm and eyes furrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She shrugs his arm off and turns to open the door, only to find it still locked, the keys on the ground where she didn’t even know she dropped them.

“Here,” Gilbert says, leaning down and grabbing them for her. He is kind when he doesn’t mention her shaking hands. “Let’s go.”

She can’t look at him on the drive home, Roy’s words ringing out in her ears over and over again.

_________________________

Once in a while, she thinks about that single night they shared. When she is frustrated and alone and wanting, she thinks of his body. Of his mouth. She cannot make herself sing the way he did, but the memory alone is enough to fall back on.

She hasn’t sought anyone out since then, especially not him. What they have now is fragile; she would rather not spoil a good thing sooner than needed. So, she’ll close her eyes and remember his hands, much larger than her own, or his body so strong and steady against hers.

Sometimes, she thinks about him in other ways. His smile is the sun and his laughter is the cool wash of a summer storm. If she closes her eyes and thinks about it, she can see him. He’s sitting in the corner booth at the diner. He’s walking down the sidewalk with his head thrown back as his whole body laughs.

He’s lying on the floor of her apartment. He looks handsome with his textbooks and dirty hair, caught up in midterms or clinicals. This is her favorite version of Gilbert, she thinks. It is when every wall comes down and it’s just him, focused and raw. He’s not perfect here. His eyes are bloodshot and his teeth gnaw at his lower lip in an effort to concentrate. She wants to take a picture of this moment and save it forever so she always has something to come back to when it ends.

She wants to join him, lift his arm up and press herself against the solid warmth of his body.

That thought is enough to startle her into an upright position. Gilbert is nothing more than a fantasy. A fever dream or hallucination not meant to be grounded in her version of forever, so she shakes those thoughts out of her head. Forces them away.

“Everything alright?” Gilbert asks. He rolls over to face her, now on his back as opposed to his stomach, and he looks handsome.

“Everything’s fine,” She answers. He’s got bags under his eyes from how disproportionate his study to sleep ratio is. They make her want to sooth her fingers through his curls and lull him to sleep. The thought is both selfless in how she wants to ease his stress and selfish in how she wants to know if his hair is as soft as she remembers.

She bets it is.

“You look flushed,” He says. Now he’s sitting up and gravity has not helped his hair one bit. It’s sticking up in odd places, greasy because his shower to study ratio is _also_ skewed.

In the back of her mind, she wonders if she could lure him into the shower the way she wants to lure him into bed. Both innocent and not.

A voice, tense and admonishing echoes in her head. _Get it together, Shirley._

“I’m fine. You’re the one who looks like they’ve been hit by a train. I should probably get out of your hair so you can clean up and rest.”

_What is with your fixation on his hair? Stop it. Stop looking at him like that. Stop thinking about him like that._

“I don’t mind the company,” He smiles, before following with, “But if you want to go, you can go. I’m not holding you hostage.”

He flashes her one of those lopsided smirks complete with quirked eyebrows and pursed lips and it sends her over the edge. Suddenly, she’s standing and brushing the wrinkles out of her leggings. Gilbert’s expression goes from playful to crestfallen in two seconds flat and she can’t bear to look at him anymore.

Roy’s words ring out in her ears. They’ve been ringing out for days and she can’t shake it, can’t dig a hole into the side of her head to relieve the pressure that’s been building.

She has no idea what she’s doing, anymore. When did he go from someone she messes with to someone she can’t breathe around? When did she go from belly laughing at his jokes to hiding her giggles behind her fist?

When did she start caring what he thought of her?

She can’t breathe.

“Anne?”

“I – I just,” She stutters. He’s standing now, towering over her. Those eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes are flooded with so much concern she feels like she’s drowning in it. He needs to stop looking at her like that – those kinds of eyes aren’t meant for her. “I – eyes.”

“Eyes?”

“No.” _What is wrong with her_. “I, as in _me._ ” _Nice save Shirley_. “I have to go.”

She forgets her sweater when she goes, leaves it hanging on the back of his dining table chair as she practically sprints out of his apartment. Her skin pebbles in the cold air, but she doesn’t even notice her own shivers. 

_________________________

Despite the way she carries herself around him, now, she still can’t stay away. 

It happens in her own apartment, in her own bed, with crappy indie music Gilbert picked out playing in the background. It happens when they’re several glasses of wine deep and whatever card game they’d been playing has been abandoned in favor of staring aimlessly at the ceiling. They talk about nothing at all, which somehow means everything to them. It always means everything, the way Gilbert smiles over at her as he laughs, the way his eyes crinkle at the edges and the apples of his cheeks tint the same color as their rosé. Anne hates it – hates _him –_ but _can’t seem to stay away_. He’s the moon and she is a moth, chasing him into the night with no real possibility catching him.

Unbeknownst to her, he’s been chasing after her the entire time. Had she known… well, things would have gone differently.

He’s looking at her with those eyes, crinkles relocated to between his brow where they’re now furrowed up. He looks contemplative in the way wine makes someone; he is simultaneously his smartest and stupidest self when he’s drunk. They both are.

Not that they’re _drunk_ drunk, just a little tipsy. Just enough to make even the stupidest things seem so funny they laugh until they’re aching, for the smallest moments to be blown way out of proportion.

“Anne,” He says. She doesn’t need to look turn toward him because she’s already locked onto him. They’ve been looking at each other for too long, but she _can’t_ tear her eyes away.

“Gilbert,” She echoes, and he smiles again, eyebrows doing a complicated dance as they decide which facial expression to settle on. Earnest wins.

“Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful?”

“Yes,” She says. He has. She remembers the way he looked at her when he wove a dandelion into her hair, and how that same dandelion now sits pressed into the back of the journal he gave her. The one who’s first fifteen pages have been filled with meaningless scrawl, the first efforts of writing she’s done in years.

It’s such a childish, whimsical action that she denies having done it even to herself, ignores the thrill she gets when she thinks of it because she _does not_ think of it.

What dandelion? There is no dandelion. 

“I want to tell you again.” He sits up and braces his hands behind him, leaning over to look down at Anne – towering over her.

“Okay,” Comes out small and sheepish, not at all how Anne prefers herself to be. And yet, she makes no effort to correct it. She simply lets herself be small under his gaze, under his stretching shadow.

She’s not ready for the tone in which he says it, nor for the look he gives her. “You’re beautiful.”

It sounds like everything she’s always wanted to hear. It sounds like the final nail being hammered into her coffin.

She sits up suddenly, almost knocking skulls with Gilbert. When did he get so close? Was he always leaning that far over her?

He looks about as startled as she feels as she gets up and grabs her water bottle off the desk. She needs to sober up.

He trails quickly behind, reaching for the bottle once Anne has had her fill and taking his own sip. He licks his lips and she watches the motion, mouth suddenly too dry for someone who literally just _chugged_ water.

“I think,” Gilbert starts, then stops. There’s a focused glint in his eye, shrouded by something a little hazy. Anne wants to believe that haze is the alcohol, but something tells her it isn’t. “I _know_ –”

“Use your words, Gilbert.” She needs to add some levity to this conversation, if she can even call it that. He's not making any sense, nothing but half formed thoughts and empty sentences falling from his lips.

Those lips that she can’t take her eyes off of – that kissable cupid’s bow and round, full lower lip, red with the way he’s been worrying it with his teeth. She doesn’t realize she’s stopped breathing until her chest burns with the absence of oxygen.

He’s going to suffocate her, crowding closer still. Anne remains rooted to the ground, unable and unwilling to move.

She feels the cup of his hand first, warm and strong against her cheek, before he dives in and captures her lips with his own. Automatically and without hesitation, she meets him in his kiss. They are hungry, starved things that try to swallow each other whole, yet for all the roughness of his kiss Anne feels nothing but reverence from him.

He tastes like rosé and honey, stars and moonlight, _hope_.

“Anne,” He breathes as he breaks the kiss. She can taste her name on his lips, a taste she has always loathed and yet comes to desire more of at this moment. She wants to let herself want him, and so she does.

Their second kiss is softer as Anne takes the lead. Her lips move against his in slow, tender presses and her tongue gently glides against his when he follows her cue to deepen. God, she has never kissed anyone like this before. She has never used so little teeth, has never not fought for dominance. Every man she’s been with has made a point to grasp control in any kind of encounter they have, but Anne gets the feeling Gilbert would gladly bow to her whims should she even imply so. That thought alone makes her break away to catch her suddenly short breath. He chases after for one, two pecks before resting his forehead against hers.

“I want to give you everything,” Gilbert sighs, running his hand down her face to hold the back of her neck in his palm. God, his hands are so big. 

She’s so caught up in the sensation of it all that she almost doesn’t hear what he says.

_Almost_.

“What?”

“I mean it,” He says, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Everything under the sun. Everything you never got to have – you deserve it all.”

She pulls back, his touch going from soothing to stringing in one singular second. The space between them grows until she bumps against her desk and uses it to steady her shaking legs.

“What is this? Are you trying to fix me or something?”

Gilbert falters for a moment before a small smirk spreads across his lips. “Do you think my kiss has healing properties?”

She knows he’s trying to joke, knows that this is the way they are together and so it’s natural for him to fall back into some kind of smooth persona in an attempt to get her to smile, but it doesn’t work. It does the opposite of work and the heat rises in her face.

“Fuck you,” She spits and suddenly Gilbert is crashing back down to Earth. Any playful energy he’d had is gone as he looks on, shell shocked by her outburst. She gives him all of ten seconds for his brain to catch up and when it does, realization crosses his face.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” He says simply.

_Liar_ , her brain hisses.

“Then what is this?”

He looks confused, dumbfounded at her interrogation. “Can’t I just want to kiss you?”

“No, you can’t. Boys like you don’t kiss girls like me without wanting something. So, what is it? What do you want?”

“Anne,” He’s trying to reason with her, trying to be the rational one in the room. Trying to challenge what her eyes and ears and brain are telling her. “I just want you.”

“Bullshit. What was all that about giving me things, huh?”

“I just,” He fumbles over his words, stepping closer only for Anne to duck around him and create even _more_ space to separate them. A physical representation of the canyon she is driving between them. “I want you to have a nice life – a _better_ one. This apartment, the diner, you deserve _more_.”

So there it is. It’s all finally coming out.

She scoffs, shaking her head. “So, what? You thought you’d just swoop in and save me? Mr. Blythe, a hot shot doctor who’s going to make it big in the world, wants to take me with him?”

“No! Not at all. I’m not trying to save you, I’m not trying to be the main character in your book. I’m just – I want to support you. I want to be there when you finally achieve great things. I want –”

“Newsflash, Gilbert, I’m not your fucking protagonist! I’m not even _my own_ protagonist! This isn’t some stupid fairytale where the princess sits up in her high tower, waiting for the dashing knight to come save her. Or – or, I don’t know, some movie about the girl who beats the odds. This is _real life!_ The princess doesn’t get saved because there _is no princess_. This isn’t a bell tower, it’s just my apartment. My entire life is in this one room. I work two jobs to keep it and I don’t qualify for anything that pays more. This is the life I have – the life I _deserve_. We are born into things, Gilbert, and that is unchangeable. You will always be the boy who was loved, who was meant to go on to become a great doctor, and I will _always_ be an orphan with nothing.”

She doesn’t realize she’s yelling at him until she’s finished and her throat feels raw. It feels good to scream in his face, even though there are hot tears rolling down her cheeks and a headache beginning to scratch its way up her temples. It feels good because she’s finally laid it all out there. She can’t stop pretending now.

This is her, in all her unshed glory. For bad and for worse, Anne Shirley’s soul is in plain view.

“That’s not all you are,” He says. His voice is rising now, matching hers in a steadier, combative way. The kind of way that boasts undeserved confidence.

“You don’t know that,” She says, “You don’t know me. _At all.”_

“But I do. I do know you! I know that your favorite color is yellow because it reminds you of the sun and that you hate red and all of its affiliates because they either remind you of, or clash horribly with, your hair. You work hard every single day and you never ask for anything, even though you deserve _everything_.” His hand sweeps through his own hair and tousles the curls until they’re a tangled mess. He looks so unkempt like this, he’s almost beautiful.

She can’t see his beauty. She won’t let herself. Not right now. 

“I know you’re an orphan who’s been working her entire life and while you’re strong and skilled for it, you’re also hurt. You don’t trust anyone because no one’s ever given you a good enough reason, but not everyone is out to get you. Someone should have adopted you, they should have taken you in and saved you then. I’m not trying to save you now, Anne, I promise I’m not. I just want to be there with you, to help you and laugh with you and be there with you. As your friend,” He pauses, taking a step toward her that she matches backwards. “Or more, if you’ll have me.”

“I don’t need you.” His words somehow make her angrier, and before she knows it she’s flying dangerously close to the sun. “I don’t need anyone!”

“Everyone needs people, Anne.”

“Not me,” She says. “I can do this on my own.” She’s not even sure what she’s referring to anymore. The only thing she deeply, truly knows is the way his words strike fear deep into her heart. Fear she doesn’t understand or want to feel, so she overrides it with anger. Blistery and hot and growing by the second.

“What about me? What if I need you?”

Why does he have to look at her with those eyes? Every single part of him makes her unravel more and more until she’s a version of herself she can no longer recognize. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you don’t. You just _think_ you do.”

Now it’s his turn to look angry. There’s a dark shadow that passes across his face as he straightens out to regard her. Not much changes about him physically, but the atmosphere around them shifts. “You’re not being fair. You can’t tell me what I do and don’t feel.”

With Gilbert’s sudden change in demeanor, Anne knows she has the upper hand and intends to capitalize on it; to make him see that she is the one whose right. “I can because you’re lying to me, probably even lying to yourself. You’ve built up this fantasy in your head and it’s _not true.”_

“I don’t understand!” He shouts, arms flailing about in some manner of emotion. He almost looks threatening like this, consumed by the frustration she’s been egging on.

“Everyone leaves eventually. You’ll leave, too. I’m just beating you to the punch.”

“People can’t love you if you don’t let them, Anne. That’s not fair. You can’t –”

“Get out.”

“– keep pushing people away!”

“I said _get out_ ,” She seethes, heat welling up in the base of her throat and building like fire.

His hands clench where they’re back at his sides and he steps aside when she crosses the room to throw the door open, finger pointing out into the night.

“Anne, be _reasonable_.”

“I’m not being unreasonable,” Her voice is ice cold and emotionless, just the way she likes it. “You just don’t know how to accept when people don’t want you around.”

Those words are apparently the ice bath that smothers the fire inside him. 

“You – you don’t want me around?” He falters. Something sharp comes over his expression, something hurt in his eyes.

She regrets her words as soon as she says them, but she can’t take them back nor can she stop them from continuing to come out. “No, I don’t! Are you fucking daft? I fucked you drunk out of my mind after a night in a club, we were never supposed to see each other again. The _only_ reason I came to your apartment is because I thought I was pregnant with your kid, but I’m not. And yet you keep hanging around, asking me for things I can never give you. Things I don’t _want_ to give you.”

“I’m not asking you for anything,” Gilbert tries to say, but his voice is thick with something Anne doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“Then what is this? Why are you here right now?”

“I thought we were friends.” Sudden tears spill over and down his face, but he chokes back any sound that might resemble a sob. It’s startling how quickly he allows his emotions to shift and overcome him; how unafraid he is of his own self.

Gilbert’s fists are balled at his side, knuckles white from how hard he’s clenching them. The vein in his temple is throbbing and his jaw is clenched so hard he might crack a tooth. It makes Anne want to reach out and hug him.

It makes her want to push him so far away she’ll never see him again. So, she delivers the final blow, protecting them both from the future she knows will be more painful if he stays.

“I’m not your friend.”

It hurts her to say just as much as it hurts him to hear. She’s driving a dagger directly into her own chest. _But it’s better this way,_ that voice in her head whispers. It’s easier when she’s the one holding the knife. At least when she cuts herself open, she’ll have no one else to blame. He can continue to live golden in her memories. What once was. What could have been.

If only she deserved it.

She thinks he’s going to leave right away, but he doesn’t. He stands rooted in place while saltwater drips down the swell of his cheeks and along the line of his jaw, permanently staining her floor.

“I don’t understand. If you never wanted me around, then why? Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you come with me to Avonlea? What about all the nights I crashed on your floor or we watched movies on my couch? All that time, you didn’t want me there? I just.. _why?”_

“Because I _pitied_ you, Gilbert.”

He chokes on his breath, then on a wet sob that rips out of his chest. She never meant for him to be a casualty in this, she never planned on this being how things went. But she cannot change what has been done.

“Get out,” Anne repeats. It feels final, and it is. 

He gives in, finally moving toward the door. He drags it open, heavy in his hands, and steps through the threshold. Nothing has ever felt so permanent before. Nothing has ever felt so hard.

Before he goes, he looks up at the night sky. She can’t see what he sees, but she wonders if there are stars out tonight. In another universe, maybe they could have star gazed. Maybe they could have held hands and shared a glass of wine.

In this universe, he says, “I don’t believe you,” with a watery, warbling voice and then disappears into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! I'm so thrilled with the response this fic has gotten and I am blown away by the love. I didn't expect p!ople to love this fic so much and I love you all just as much!
> 
> Now, guys... Be gentle with Anne. Please understand her character. She is protecting herself. Or, she THINKS she protecting herself. Any love she's ever known has hurt her so in her head, she's safer by doing this. Don't worry, the fic doesn't end here. There's more. We will get our happy ending. 
> 
> Please drop a comment if you're so inclined to give me thoughts, predictions, validation, angry exortations, nonsense, or whatever you're so inclined to do. I love hearing from everyone!
> 
> Come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://thelazyeye.tumblr.com/) and on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/thelazyeye1)! And please, if you’re so inclined, drop a comment and let me know what you thought!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only person Anne Shirley belongs to is herself.

Her chest aches in a way it never has before. Not in the orphanage after she’d been returned from what was supposed to be her final placement. Not after she was thrown out at eighteen and forced to fend for herself. Not after Roy left her for the first time.

Never before has she felt her ribs open themselves up one by one until all that’s left is an empty black pit of nothing. Aching, blistering nothing.

Sobered up and dried out, Anne watches her the patterns on her ceiling spin in small, tight circles.

_________________________

He comes to her by moonlight, not long after she throws him out into the night. She knows it's him by the way he knocks. She had accidentally memorized the way his knuckles rap against the wood. It’s a short, succinct sound that is distinctly _him_.

Blankly, she wishes she could forget.

“Anne, I know you’re in there. I just want to talk,” Comes from the other side of the door, muffled but loud enough for Anne to feel the rumbles in her chest. His voice is another thing she wishes she could forget. The sound of it after so long echoes in her brain. She doesn’t want to commit it to memory, but it’s already there.

 _It’s only been a week,_ she reminds herself. It’s a bitter attempt to soothe over the dull pang in her heart. _It’s only been a week, are you so desperate that you cannot handle seven days without him?_

“I know you’re home. Unless you changed your schedule or –” He cuts off suddenly. Disappears into the night as if his voice was just a delusion brought about by the intense way she won’t admit she misses him. She convinces herself he’s not really there until he speaks again. Softer this time, he says, “Please open up.”

She won’t. She refuses. If she sees him now. If she opens that door –

Two more knocks, firm yet gentle against the weathered wood.

“I have something of yours,” He tries. “I figured you might want it back.” A few beats of silence pass before Anne gets up and wanders a little closer to the door, sidestepping the particularly loud floorboard. She moves silently. “It’s from the bar. Your shirt – you left it that night.”

She thinks back, almost a year ago and her life was so different without him ever having been in it. She wants so desperately to return to that time, to tell herself not to go home with him. If she knew how hard walking away would be today, she would have done it when there was nothing at stake.

How foolish of her to believe she had no ties to him, that she could vanish without a trace. How foolish to think it wouldn’t hurt.

She knows that time will ease over the pain of it all. Even so, it’s too fresh.

When she reaches the door, she finds herself a bit lost. There’s no peephole to look out of, so she just stands there. The breath she takes is quiet, as if she’s scared that if she even breathes too loud he’ll burst through the door and find her.

No part of her wants to face him. She can’t. Not after what she’s done.

“Anne,” he calls again. His tone is firm and leaves little room for arguments. Too bad for him doors can’t argue. “The other night. We – we were drunk and we said some stuff. I don’t like the way we left things.”

Slowly, softly, Anne presses her back against the door and closes her eyes. Her heart drops in her chest as she sinks down until she’s sitting. His words staple fine little holes into the paper of her skin. They were drunk. They said some things. Two ice cold facts which Anne’s memories replay the consequences of over and over again. She’s still angry with him for having the nerve to come into her life and assume the role of hero, but underneath that anger she feels an overwhelming sadness.

In her head, she imagines him on the other side. A mirror image reflected through dense wood. Back to back, knees drawn to chests. Twins, star-crossed by her own poor choices. Again and again, she wonders how they went from strangers to permanent fixtures in each other’s lives.

When you break something, it cannot be unbroken. Anne broke them, and so the hole he left in her life is serrated and sharp. She cannot fix them, and so she must suffer the repercussions of her actions.

 _It’s safer this way_ , that nasty little voice echoes. _He would have left you no matter what. At least now, you hold all the power._

At least now, it’s not Anne begging Gilbert to open up his door. Surely, this must hurt less. _Surely,_ this is the better alternative.

“Won’t you please open up?” He asks. His voice is so soft Anne is sure she wouldn’t be able to hear it if she wasn’t so close to him.

She shakes her head no to quell the guilt inside of her for leaving him out there. It doesn’t work.

Time passes in a meaningless wave of choked back tears and silence. Gilbert doesn’t ask again and Anne never answers.

Eventually, she wakes up on the floor with a strain in her neck and a dry patch in her throat. It takes several moments for her to realize where she is, several more to realize _why_.

Once, when she was very little, Anne read that time always heals broken hearts.

 _Your heart can’t be broken if you never had one to begin with_ , she argues.

_________________________

She finds her shirt hanging on the handle of her door and she doesn’t understand if the feeling inside of her is relief or grief.

They sound too similar in her mind.

_________________________

The rain comes in thick sheets against the window of her room. Her tiny, lifeless room. Every night, it seems, the thrumming of water hitting her windowpane gets louder and louder.

It begins as a drizzle, steadily building pressure with every passing night until it is nothing short of a monsoon. And yet, without fail, when she wakes the sky is clear and the day is new. Whatever rain that came in the cover of night is only seen in the form of puddles, starting small and growing bigger with every passing thunderstorm. She can’t help but chuckle dryly as she stares at her reflection in the water. The morning sky is so clear she almost believes she imagines the shaking thunder that keeps her awake. However, it can’t be a hallucination when her own empty eyes stare back from the bottom of storm drains.

With the rain, her walkway floods, muddy and slippery as she splashes to and from her obligations. Her shoes are too thin to keep the water out so she is left working shifts with wet socks. It hurts, but she never brings an extra pair with her.

It builds slowly, as everything else does in her life. Slowly, _slowly_ , the water reaches her lungs. It rises so slow that she doesn’t even realize it’s happening until she’s choking on it, drowning in her own sorrow.

She won’t ever admit it, not out loud.

She can’t say the words.

_I miss him._

She _won’t_ say the words.

 _I’m sorry_.

On a Tuesday evening, the rain stops. Anne thinks it’s ironic because even though the sidewalks and storm drains are drying up, her chest has never felt more flooded. Forecasts call for _sunny days ahead!_

“Finally,” Mrs. Hammond snorts, “We can enjoy our summer.”

Anne smiles along, rocking the youngest Hammond to sleep and nodding while another storm begins to brew inside of her.

_________________________

They say bad things come in threes. They start when you least expect it and quickly snowball into an uncontrollable storm, the kind that you can’t fight back against no matter how hard you try.

They say you can’t see it coming, but Anne sees it clearly in the same way passers-by can’t help but watch a car accident on the side of the road. Very few ever stop to help, they just linger in the corners and stares as everything goes up in flames, hoping someone else will step in and take control. Fixing things takes too much responsibility. It’s easier to close your eyes and wish that when you open them, everything’s been taken care of.

She knows in the way that Diana sits perpendicular to the bakery case that this is going to be the second bad thing in her set of three. She can see the forecast in Diana’s sugar sweet smile.

The end is nigh.

“Anne!” She calls, waving her over as if Anne hadn’t seen her the second she walked through the door. Diana is hard to miss in her powder blue dress and high ponytail. She glides into the diner on air she may as well own with sheer confidence alone. Diana pays for things with little mind, expenses meaningless to her. A thing of dreams, fragile in Anne’s mind. Porcelain.

Another thing Anne will only break from her sheer recklessness alone.

“Good morning, Diana.” Neutral is the goal. Neutral and professional. Anne will paint the smile on her face, force it to reach her eyes. She will lean into the lilt in her voice, emphasize her constantans and make her vowels pleasant to hear. She will build her walls and protect both of them from the inevitable. “Would you like your usual?”

Diana blinks once, mouth gaping for only a moment before she gathers herself. “Yes, I would love that. Thank you.”

Anne turns and makes her way back to the kitchen, diligent in her preparation of Diana’s order: a cup of coffee (black, two sugars) and a blueberry scone with jam on the side.

When she comes back out, Diana has hardly set up shop. Instead, Anne finds her staring into her water as if it holds the answers to the greatest questions in the universe. Her brows are furrowed in and her bottom lip sits pinched between her teeth. She’s so deep in her own head, Anne feels bad when the clatter of the plate shakes Diana out of it.

Diana quietly thanks her before tilting her head up and asking, “Is everything alright?”

“Of course,” Anne automatically answers, only a single beat after Diana asks. “Why wouldn’t things be alright?”

“You just,” She starts, then stops. She seems to consider her words as she, sipping on her coffee for something to fill the space while she thinks. Anne waits patiently, a smile still painted on. The muscles in the sides of her jaw begin to strain.

“You don’t seem like yourself,” Diana settles on. She doesn’t look satisfied, lips pursed and quirked to the side while she idly stirs her drink.

“I feel fine, but thank you,” Anne says, and then she’s off.

It’s not fair to Diana in the same way it wasn’t fair to Gilbert, but it’s better this way. If there’s anything Anne has learned over the years, it’s that nothing is truly fair. Life will chew her up and spit her out a thousand times over before it seeks good graces from the fallout. So, when she sees the opportunity to grasp control, she takes it.

This is one of those moments. Diana, while sweet in the sense that sugar practically runs through her blood, is _danger_. She is the fallout from which Anne is running. Collateral damage in her own desperate self-preservation.

They just aren’t compatible. Not as friends. It was silly to push the boundaries. What they had before _worked_. Anne just had to go and mess it all up. It was a stupid wish. Diana is Diana and she is Anne. They are two different people from two different worlds. Even if they could be friends, it’s unsustainable.

She just had to want more. All she ever wants is more and all it ever does it ruin what she has.

God, she needs to learn how to be happy with what she has. Wanting more opens herself up to heartbreak. It’s so stupid.

She can feel Diana’s gaze burning into the back of her head as she works her way from table to table. Heavy plates burn her arms from the heat of the food she carries, but it pales in comparison to the way Diana’s eyes burn pinholes into her. By the time she crawls into bed tonight, she’s sure she’ll feel the scar of it scabbing over every inch of her.

Permanent memories of the mistakes she’s made. Nothing good ever scars.

_________________________

Fuck, this is frustrating. Nothing has ever been this frustrating. It should be easy, right? It’s _simple._ All she has to do is press her pen into the paper and _move it_. Drag the tip of it down in a straight line, pick it up, drag it down in a curve, maybe make a circle here and there. It isn’t hard. She’s done it a thousand times. She’s done it for _years_.

Her life has been littered with notebooks for as long as she can remember. More than half of them are lost to the wind, scattered about in failed foster placements and under the floorboards of the orphanage. Millions of words she’s penned in the past, preserved and forgotten all at once.

Pens and notebooks have been part of her life in every conceivable way. It makes no sense that she’s been sitting in front of an open page for days. Every time she gets home, every time she’s caught between moments of previously occupied free time, she sits down and opens to the same page. The top line is covered in faint dots from the sheer amount of times she’s pressed her pen down, only to pick it back up again.

At first, it wasn’t so frustrating. It’s not like she hasn’t pondered over her words before. It’s not like she hasn’t taken her time with new stories, new entries, new thoughts. This should have been just that – something to mull over for a few days before finally finding the right words to commit to paper.

But it isn’t. It’s been too long to play it off as something simple.

Waiting isn’t working, anymore. Thinking isn’t helping. She sits down, crosses her legs, and waits for the words to come. They never do. She has become a well dried to the bone, freshwater nothing but a distant dream.

She’s broken. She has to be. Her brain is officially defective. Nothing else makes sense right now. There’s no logical explanation to her writer’s block. Things had been going so well before. She’d filled pages and pages with new stories, ideas, lists. Anything she thought about made it into her journal. Its leather binding held the secrets and answers to everything she dared to ask. Sure, things have been a bit harder lately.

Sure, things have been a bit lonelier. But that doesn’t mean every single word has been sucked out of her soul. If anything, it should mean she has even _more_ words to write. She should be overflowing with new things to say. Hazel eyes have overtaken pieces of her life even in their absence. She wouldn’t be surprised if they came to life in the stroke of her pen. At first, she resisted the idea of writing about him, too upset with herself to commit him further into permanence. Now, she’d be happy if she could find the words that fit him best. Even if it burned her up from the inside out, she’d be relieved to know there was something left inside of her.

As it seems, there isn’t.

She is empty.

_________________________

She’s not _avoiding_ Diana. Avoiding is such a harsh word, such a _guilty_ word. It implies someone did something wrong, or that someone is at fault. No one is at fault, which is Anne’s entire goal. No one has hurt the other and she will stop at nothing to ensure neither of them gets hurt.

Well, it’s too late for her. She’s stitched herself closed so many times that the fabric of her skin is porous; little pieces of her spills out from between wide hems. Diana, though. Diana she can protect.

Anne is simply issuing forward a new dynamic. Setting new expectations and drawing boundaries down in the sand. So, when she asks the hostess to sit Diana in Prissy’s section, she doesn’t think twice. A necessary decision. A means to an end that ultimately protects both of them.

Diana will never have to know the shame and hurt that comes with the ultimate realization that they just won’t work out as anything more than a server and her customer. And Anne? Well, Anne knows she wouldn’t be able to handle the specific kind of agony that comes with letting someone in, only to lose them.

She’s hardly surviving it the first time. She knows she can’t do it again.

Selfish, she knows, but necessary.

A means to an end.

“Anne!” Diana shouts, bright eyed but cautious as she makes her way into the diner. Anne, ever so polite, smiles and waves in her direction but makes no move toward her. She simply turns back to her side word, wrapping silverware in white napkins and trying not to think about the tips she’ll miss out on by sacrificing another table. It stings to think about Diana in terms of money and service, but it’s another facet of their reality. Another reason being friends just isn’t in the cards for them. Friends don’t pay friends’ utility bills.

Prissy will take an extra table, get a couple extra dollars in her pocket, and Anne will continue filling salt shakers while the Sunday stragglers make their way into the diner.

Or don’t.

Anne spends maybe thirty minutes over there, sitting away from the customers and drowning out the idle clinking of metal on metal. She worked until every piece of silverware was wrapped, every shaker was filled, every bottle was wiped down.

She worked until she had nothing to do, and in all that time not a single soul walked through the doors.

It’s not until she’s washed her hands twice, organized clean cups, and gotten herself a green tea, that she finds herself with a table. An elderly couple, short and fragile and entirely in love. Anne recognizes them as regulars, but she has never had the pleasure of serving them herself. They’re all smiles and slow movements, her husband helping her sit down before making his way to his own seat. Jackets off, smiles wide, she takes their order.

They’re beautiful, she thinks. Their love is something that pours out of them in waves. It’s easy to absorb some for herself, to leech off of their fondness for each other. Maybe steal some for herself.

If she could live off of other’s love by proxy, maybe she could make it.

Love by proxy, however, is temporary. Anne basks in the warm of their knowing smiles, their forkfuls of joy and history, but they can’t stay forever. Sooner than she wants, Anne’s only table is paying their check. She watches them walk out, hand in hand until he moves to open the door for her. It’s that old fashioned kind of love, still honest and true even if it doesn’t fit into the narrative of modern times. It’s the kind of love she read about in old books. A courting kind of romance, propriety and expectations. Real and preserved in glassy eyes and laughter lines.

It makes Anne’s chest ache. For reasons she does not want to know. Reasons she actively shadows.

_________________________

The next time it happens, Anne doesn’t walk away so easily. In fact, she doesn’t really walk away at all.

Diana doesn’t come in for over a week, despite Anne’s consistent presence in the diner. She’d been steadily tapering off before this, but now it’s only a matter of time before she disappears altogether. A consequence of Anne’s actions, both comforting and tragic. It’s strange how those kinds of emotions can exist at the same time. They overshadow each other, ebb and flow together in the eye of the storm that is Anne Shirley. One moment, she’s sure in herself. She knows what needs to be done and how to do it. Other moments, though. They’re more difficult. She finds herself sinking deeper and deeper into the depths of despair.

It’s in those moments that she second guesses everything she’s done so far. Late at night, she finds herself reaching for her phone, unplugged and turned off on her nightstand. One press of a button, one phone call. That’s all it would take to hear his voice again. Even in his voicemail. She could even go so far as to find Diana somewhere in the pixelated world that is social media.

She doesn’t, though. By the time it takes for her phone to power up, she’s always managed to talk herself out of it.

She can cope with this. Really, she can.

It’s for the best.

Which is why, when she sees Diana get up from her table and make a beeline in her direction, Anne pretends to remember something needing her attention in the kitchen.

She doesn’t make it far, the kitchen doors calling out to her like a lighthouse in a thunderstorm. 

“Anne,” Diana calls, catching her just before she’s able to slip away and into the kitchen. Misfortune smiles on her the same way she forces her own smile through her teeth. “May I have a moment?”

“Of course, Diana, what can I get you?” It comes out sickly sweet. Years of customer service override any emotions that threaten to leak out.

“Nothing,” Diana says. Her eyes shine with something hesitant, something _hurt._ It’s the kind of look that precedes something big and painful. Loud arguments, painful words, explosive intentions. Anne braces herself for impact.

“I was just wondering,” Diana continues, “if I’ve done something to offend you?”

Anne blanches at this, completely caught off guard.

“No,” Is all she can say at first. It comes out choked, as if there’s something blocking the majority of her windpipe and preventing her from speaking. _Guilt,_ Anne thinks. _Guilt for pushing Diana away. Guilt for involving her in the first place._

Diana is simply another casualty, caught in the cross fire of Anne’s own self destruction. She sits at the top of a long list of beautiful things that are not meant for homely little orphans. Beautiful, graceful Diana.

She is meant for beautiful, graceful things.

Anne is neither beautiful nor graceful.

“You haven’t done anything,” Anne says, a heartbeat too late for it to pass as casual.

Diana looks unconvinced, eyes darting back and forth between Anne’s as if she’s looking for something.

“Then why have you been avoiding me?” The hesitant and hurt look is gone from Diana’s eyes, replaced by something petulant and captious. There’s a glint in her eyes Anne would tease her about in another life, but right now she only finds intimidating. She’s never seen this side of Diana before – the side that begs the truth instead of polite, socially acceptable missives. It’s only ever been _please_ and _thank you_ and _I’ll pay for your coffee_.

“I haven’t,” Anne lies. Lies through her teeth, and badly.

“Anne, come on. I sit in your section every time I come in and suddenly you’re not available? I have miss Elizabeth over there who doesn't know sugar from Splenda. I swear, she messes my coffee up every single time! And I know it’s not busy enough in here for you to be in the middle of something every time I try to talk to you. You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m sorry,” Anne cuts in, desperate to stop Diana’s words from cutting any deeper into her chest. She knew this part would be painful, the part where she ruins everything on purpose. In a desperate act of self-preservation, Anne says, “I really must go.”

She’s halfway through the double doors when she hears Diana ask, “Can you at least tell me what I’ve done wrong?”

At this, Anne stops. Her body is mostly over the _Employees Only_ threshold, safety in the form of a busy kitchen waits only a few steps away. She watches as her coworkers’ bustle around the crowded space. Ceramic clacks against ceramic and the sound of spatulas scraping a marred stovetop echo in the hollow space between her ears.

Without taking her eyes off of the pot at the other end of the kitchen, Anne says, “Diana dearest, you haven’t done a single thing wrong.”

Then she’s gone, running off to take shelter inside of the walk-in freezer. She leaves Diana standing there without so much as a single glance over her shoulder because she knows if she looks back, the cracks in her armor will shatter into ten thousand jagged little pills.

It takes everything inside of her to keep herself together. Tears freeze in the corners of her eyes as her breath stutters in small, white clouds.

She stands in there until her fingers ache and the skin of her arms feels like sandpaper. She becomes so cold that she stops registering it as cold and just feels pain. The stinging of it takes away from the way her heart is slamming itself against her ribcage. Her lungs ice over from the inside out until she can’t take it anymore and steps out.

She’s thankful the kitchen is mostly empty when she comes walking out. She’s sure she’s a mess, all rosy cheeks and red rimmed eyes. Blinking twice, she feels unshed tears thaw and she wipes at them before they dry. Then, she pulls her hands to her mouth and breathes two hot puffs into them. It doesn’t take the chill away but she can feel the way her skin begins to thaw a little bit.

One peek through the door tells her Diana is gone. The only sign of her ever having been here is the crisp bills left on the table she once occupied.

_________________________

“I don’t understand why this is such a big deal, darling,” Mrs. Hammond sighs. She’s rushing around the kitchen, purse clutched tightly in one hand while the other runs through her hair. Anne sees her car keys sitting tucked beside the coffee pot but doesn’t say anything.

“Mrs. Hammond, please,” Anne tries, scooting to the side before she’s shoved.

“I really don’t have time for this,” She huffs, “I’m running late.”

“I realize that, I was just hoping I could get last week’s pay before you leave.”

“I’ll give it to you when I get back.” Anne would be inclined to believe her if she hadn’t been saying that for the last three days. Something bubbles up inside of her at the dismissal, but she can see two pairs of eyes looking at her from the living room. Curious. Watching.

It’s best not to start something she can’t finish when the kids are around. It’s best not to get them involved.

“Jesus,” Mrs. Hammond breathes, finally grabbing her keys out of their hiding spot on the counter and rolling her eyes. “I’d lose my own head if it wasn’t attached to me.”

Then, she’s gone from the kitchen and kissing her children on the head. They don’t so much as blink at her, eyes still watching Anne for her next movement. Her next choice.

“I’ll have your money when I get home tonight, don’t fret.”

Defeat tastes bitter on her tongue.

_________________________

The days wear on like weeks, every moment wilting like ragged weeds in the dust. Somehow it feels both like the hardest and easiest thing she’s ever done. Moving forward feels like nothing but a haze that settles over her mind. Every day she wakes up, pulls together some kind of outfit, and gets on with her day. She ignores the way it becomes harder and harder to swallow around the lump in her throat.

Underneath the twinges of pain that twists themsevles between her breastbone and sternum, Anne feels empty; semi-automatic and superficial.

Anne has never been good at burying what she already knows. Before, there was nothing to notice because everything had always been the same. Now, though, she can see. And even though it’s muted, tampered down by the lethargy that permeates her bones, Anne knows the difference. She can’t shut it out.

She knows what it feels like to for things to be _better_. A small taste of the greener grass is all it takes to ruin her for it.

And everything comes crashing down in the form of a single hand placed in a single, inappropriate place.

Billy fucking Andrews _did not_ just do that.

The world bleeds into red, the back room of the diner becoming nothing but an empty space that twists into something borderline feral.

Anne has always been able to defend herself. Has always _wanted to_ in some respect. She’s bitten down with words so sharp others have bled at her lips. But she has also laid down and taken it. She has let others sink _their_ teeth into _her_ and pretended it was all okay. She thinks of Roy and his dark eyes, of the countless foster homes she failed out of. She thinks of the Matron and the way she burned; how the other girls had picked up on her merciless ways and how Anne had _itched_ for retribution that never came.

It takes a grand total of two seconds for her to shatter like glass. Any composure she pulled out of her ass in that freezer is lost to the wind. Boiling over and burning on the tips of her fingers.

The icy heat of shame wells up in the apples of her cheeks. She knows she could walk away and pretend it didn’t happen. She could close her eyes and try to forget the look in his. But the feeling of his hand on her ass stays long after Billy himself is gone.

And soon, so is Anne, trailing right after him through the double doors of the kitchen until she has eyes on him. He’s standing by the hostess station, an inopportune place for what’s about to go down.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem!” She yells – actually _yells_ into the dining room. Her voice ricochets off the linoleum floors and every head turns in unison until she’s the star of the show. She’s too blind to see it, eyes focused on one person and one person alone.

Said person gives her a look that makes her sick. All twisted smiles and knowing eyes. He raises his hands in defense and says exactly what she knew he would. “Whoa, Anne, calm down.”

“Do _not_ tell me to calm down!” She shrieks. He’s closer now and dimly she knows she must have come closer because he hasn’t moved an inch. “How _dare_ you put your hands on me.”

Billy rolls his eyes the same way he does everything else – infuriatingly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Every word that comes out of his mouth sends her further and further over the edge. He has been nothing but a thorn in her side since the day she started working at this hell hole. He’s been lurking around every corner, words ready for the kill. Every time he comes around it’s like all he wants to do is cause chaos.

What’s worse is that he doesn’t even need to be here. He doesn’t work for the diner! Anne’s convinced he comes in solely to make her life a living hell.

“Yes, you do,” She seethes. With venom dripping between the spaces in her teeth, she is a cobra. “You know very well what you did.”

“Anne,” Billy says, stepping around the hostess station and slinking his way toward her. “You’re acting crazy. I didn’t _do_ anything.”

By now, she can feel the entire diner staring at her. Mr. Andrews himself is nowhere to be seen but his presence is felt by the whole of the space. Looming and inevitable, he will shut her parlor act down as soon as he catches wind. If she’s going to strike, it’ll have to be quick.

“You put your hands on me,” She says, loud enough for everyone to hear her. Billy’s face falters for a moment but he recovers quickly.

“You girls are always looking for attention,” He scoffs. “I mean, look at that skirt?”

His fatal mistake is being close enough for her to slap. The sound of it is sharp and satisfying. She would smile if she weren’t so blindly angry. “A skirt is not an invitation! God, what is wrong with you?!”

It’s at this moment Mr. Andrews comes careening into the front of the diner. His face is as red as Anne’s hair, blue eyes practically bulging out of his skull.

“Anne Shirley! What is the meaning of this!”

Somewhere deep inside of her, there’s a rational adult just begging to be let out. This part of Anne knows the consequences of what’s about to happen. She knows that things would be better if Anne quit while she’s ahead. Maybe she could salvage some of this mess and walk away still employed. She would get to keep the satisfaction of swinging back while still knowing she’ll have a paycheck at the end of the week.

She could fight for it – _really_ fight to keep what she has. But does she even want it?

Does she want to spend the rest of her days mopping up shit in the men’s bathroom? Does she want to work her fingers to the bone only to be ridiculed by the boss’s golden son? Does she want to bow to the whim of that very boss, the same man who has used his booming voice to abuse and berate his workers since this place opened?

Is that how she wants to live?

“No, seriously, there has to be something wrong with you. Were you dropped as a child or something? Did the other boys make fun of you on the playground so now you have to assert your dominance by being the world’s biggest douche bag? News flash, Billy, no one likes you. And it’s not because you’re _so cool and everyone’s jealous of you_ –”

“That’s enough!”

Anne flinches, reaction completely overriding her consciousness but not overpowering her anger. She doubles back almost instantly, turning on her heel and facing up the big bad wolf, himself.

“And you! You raised him to behave this way?” Mr. Andrews is either stunned into complete silence or at a loss for words when his quietest employee begins shouting in his face. “Don’t act so innocent. You see the way he treats everybody else, as if we’re _beneath_ him. Especially the women. Don’t pretend like you don’t see the way your son acts like a hungry dog around Prissy, drooling all over himself as if she’s nothing but a piece of meat. God, the way you let him parade around like _he’s_ the owner makes me sick!”

“How dare you insult me,” Mr. Andrews booms, chest puffing out as if to assert his dominance. He’s weak, Anne realizes, without his intimidation tactics working in his favor. All he looks like is a red balloon, fragile and fake in its stature. “If you know what’s best, you’ll shut your mouth _right this instant_.”

“I guess her own mother never taught her how to act,” Billy sneers. “Oh – _wait._ That’s right. She’s nothing but a stray dog.”

His words stoke the fire deep inside of her belly. There’s no putting it out, now. She’s a car accident she can’t look away from, behind the wheel of her own destruction.

What does she have to lose? Really? What’s left? The only thing that she found even a smidgen of joy in is long gone. And now that she knows what it’s like to really enjoy something, she knows how bitter her reality really tastes. Brown eyes burn in the back of her brain and they remind her of gentle hands, gentler words.

Gilbert’s kindness caught her off guard. It’s something she never thought she needed, never even thought was real. Fairy tale smiles and shared meals on the corner of her bed. He shook her down to her very core, broke her in ways she didn’t notice until right now. In this town of glass and eyes, every single person passing her over with their judgement and neglect, Gilbert stopped and breathed warmth into her. And even though she ruined it, took his kindness and threw it to the wind at his expense, she feels it lingering in the spaces between her ribs. It follows her every single day. It’s overflowing and threatening to break her from the inside out.

Anne knows she wants more of what she had.

And this isn’t it.

“Hey, Billy. I googled your symptoms the other day – turns out you’re just a piece of shit!”

“Anne Shirley,” Mr. Andrews says, voice even and calm as if saying her full name in such a way will help give him the upper hand. As if her name is a spell he can cast to control her. “Apron. Now.”

Anne pulls at the strings of her apron so hard they whip around and catch the backs of her arms. It stings in the most satisfying way. Like the shedding of an old skin, her apron falls to the floor in a heavy pile. The clacking of her pens is muted by her notepad, both drowned out by the weight of the diner falling off her shoulders.

This is a double-edged sword and she knows it. When she walks out of those doors, she will be falling out of the frying pan and into the fire. But staying here… it just isn’t an option. Not anymore. She can’t take back the things she said, nor does she want to. She’d rather fight tooth and nail out there than spend another second under the suffocating gaze of the Andrews.

She might regret this in two seconds, two days, two weeks, but right now she can’t find it within herself to care. Ruining her own life has never felt so right.

_________________________

Honestly, the bar is the absolute last place she wants to be right now. She’s not sure how she ended up here. One thing led to another and instead of taking the beaten path to her front door, Anne found herself sitting in front of an empty table watching the condensation trickle down the side of her warming beer. A beer she really can’t afford right now, but fuck it. Right?

Right.

Her entire life is going to shit. What does she have to lose? Everything is already up, over, and ass backwards so one beer can’t make things worse.

Jesus, she needs to find another job. Being a half-assed babysitter isn’t going to keep her neck above water. Especially when fives and tens keep disappearing out of her weekly wages. Silently, she runs through her finances. She’ll be fine for the month of May and part of June, but if she doesn’t find a second job soon she won’t make it through the summer.

At least it’s warm outside, right now. That way, if she has to…

The weight of her situation bears down on both her shoulders, pressing her into the uncomfortable wood of the booth. She hardly notices the way a shadow slinks across the room, slipping off the bar and crawling its way toward her would-be private alcove. She’s too wrapped up in herself, consumed by the comforting familiarity of the hurricane of her life.

He sits down silently, back pin straight and an easy smile on his face. When she notices him, _really_ notices him, her stomach twists inside out and backwards.

He’s got his own drink, dew gathering on his fingers where they’re wrapped around the pint. No one speaks. No one moves. It’s just her and Roy, pretending the other isn’t there. Or maybe pretending the air isn’t full of violent static and bad blood.

God, why is he even here? Doesn’t he have some other girl’s life to ruin?

Anne lets herself take in the sight of him for all that he is, eyes wandering up the crisp press of his dress shirt to where the top two buttons are popped open. A sight she used to revel in now makes her eyes roll.

After a drawn out sip of his beer, he says, “Where’s your boy toy?”

The smooth timbre of his voice sends a shiver down her spine and curdles in the bottom of her stomach. Gilbert, though never far from her mind, is the last thing she wants to be thinking about. Especially while Roy eyes her down in low lamp lighting. “He’s not my boy toy, and he’s not here.”

Roy chuckles something is dark and slimy, his eyes lingering not on Anne’s own, but somewhere just south of her lips. “I knew he’d bounce eventually. What’d you do, talk his ear off?”

Anne doesn’t dignify him with a response, which sets him off anyway. It’s always a lose-lose with Roy.

“Must have been your head game. It was always shit, anyway.”

_“Shut up.”_

She should know better by now. Really, she should. Roy has been playing the same game for years now and she falls for it every time. He knows how to get under her skin in more ways that she’s comfortable with and he knows it. He can play her like a fiddle.

Slyly, he slips from his side of the booth and rounds the table to where she’s sitting. Before he can sneak in, she’s standing, shoulder jamming against his as she pushes past him and makes her way back to the bar.

Roy doesn’t get the hint. Or he does and just ignores it anyway, trailing slow close she can feel his words. “Oh, that was it, wasn’t it?” He says, taking a mile where she gives an inch.

No, that wasn’t it, but she can’t say that. If she keeps it vague, he’ll only be inclined to continue down that path until he’s whispering exceedingly lewd things in her ear. If she told him the truth, which she never will, it will only give him more ammo to load up with for the next time they unfortunately cross paths. More words to load into his arsenal of weapons to chip her armor down to skin and bones so he can whittle his way inside and get what he wants.

And they both know what he wants tonight.

He rounds on her, stepping between her and the counter. She curses her body as it betrays her, the skin on her facing burns scarlet red. She can feel the pressure build in the backs of her eyes and there’s no doubt that they’ve turned glossy in the low lighting. It’s a dead giveaway to the assumptions Roy was always going to make.

“Oh, shit, you didn’t even put out, did you? No wonder he left.” She’s about to correct him when his eyes light up and he sneers, “No, that’s not it. _He_ didn’t put out. He wouldn’t sleep with you, would he? I mean, can’t blame him. He’s way out of your league.”

Roy crowds into her space as he whispers his next line, going in for the final blow. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ve never cared about looks. I’ll still hit it. I bet he’s a chode, anyway.”

She manages to get her hand between his chest and her shoulder to shove him away. He laughs as he stumbles backwards, a mean and twisted sound dripping out of his mouth. The same mouth that morphs into a Cheshire grin and threatens to swallow her whole. Predictably, her armor begins to crack.

“Eat shit, Roy.”

“Hey, you should _thank_ me. You’re obviously not gonna do any better. I don’t even know what you’re thinking. You’re not the relationship type, Anne, especially not with a hot doctor who’s leagues above you.” He’s back in her space again, his breath making muggy pebbles rise over the expanse of her neck. “Let’s get out of here. Skip the bull and cut straight to the end.”

Hot and angry is an understatement. Anne’s entire body feels like a growing flame on a balmy summer night. Kindling sits at the base of her neck while Roy continues to pour gasoline all over her until she’s raging, all consumed in the nothingness of this fight. A losing battle for one of them, but the jury’s still out on who.

“Get fucked”

“I’m trying,” He laughs. It’s not a pleasant sound. _Not like Gilbert’s_. “Look at me, Anne. Look me in the eyes and tell me you can do better. I’m the son of a CEO, I’m loaded and I could make your wildest dreams come true. You live in that shit apartment with nothing to your name. Imagine living in the penthouse with _me_. You’d never want for anything ever again. I don’t know why you keep resisting me – us – _this_. Your wildest dreams.”

Those words used to work on her. She used to close her eyes and _want_ _so badly_ for him to take her away from her wretched life. His promises seemed so grand and happy in the beginning. The riches, the clothing, the food, the _security._ It was all empty, falling out of the woodwork like termites destroying the foundation to a poorly built cabin.

She’s not sure what’s different, but the rage that sparks inside of her is no longer fleeting. It is not doused by self-hatred and loathing like in days past. Those feelings are still there, tucked between her ribs to create a casing around her bruised heart, but they’re not swelling and consuming. They don’t cloud her judgment tonight.

How dare he. That little apartment that he hates so much is _hers_ and _hers alone_. It might be small and it might be shitty, but it’s _hers_. She’s tired of him making her feel small for making it in this world. Not everyone was born into status and money. Not everyone had the advantages Roy had. And if having those advantages would have made her just as much of an asshole, she doesn’t want them. She doesn’t want anything from him.

Not anymore.

Suddenly, she remembers how it felt to turn the tables on Billy. To shout her worth into his face and watch as he fumbled for grasp of the situation. The heft of her decision still weighs on her, but it will never be as heavy as the shackles she felt were tied to the Andrews’ diner.

And she itches to feel that kind of freedom again.

“Leave your bullshit at the door. You and I both know that by the time I wake up in the morning, you’ll be long gone. Another _last-minute business trip_ or _meeting with daddy in Toronto_. You’re not going to give me anything I can’t get for myself.”

“Oh, kitty’s grown some claws. C’mon, you really think you could get all of this on your own? Anne, you have _nothing_ and I have _everything._ Let me share the wealth with you.”

“The only thing you want to share is your dick. I don’t need you. I have myself and I don’t need you or anyone else to _give me_ things.”

“How are you gonna get them, huh? I know you, Anne. I know you better than you know yourself. The first time we met? You approached me. You saw what I had and you wanted it – you knew how to get it. And you spent _months_ living out of the lining of my pockets before vanishing into the streets.”

It wasn’t his money she wanted. It was the comfort that came with it. The protection of it, all tucked inside of a handsome face. _A package deal_ , she thinks bitterly. Too young and naïve to really know the difference between love and safety.

What he fails to mention is the countless nights of screaming in each other’s faces, or how every time he swiped his credit card he made sure to let Anne know that it wasn’t a selfless action – she would need to reciprocate in one way or another. He conveniently forgets all the times he whispered her darkest thoughts into her own ear, only pushing her further and further into the grave that’d been dug for her.

A year, a month, _a week ago_ this probably would have worked.

_Not anymore._

Back then, love was nothing but a pretty little fantasy hidden between the pages of a book. It wasn’t _real_. It wasn’t what she’s tasted since.

Roy continues his verbal assault on her, to which falls silent as she thinks about the past few months. She swears she smiled more with Gilbert than she ever has in her entire life. It _hurt_ to smile that much. Not just in her face but in her chest and arms and heart. Happiness was so foreign to her that her antibodies waged war on it. It was not just the unfamiliarity of it, but the danger it implied. To be happy was to be vulnerable. Happiness could be taken away; but, if she _chose_ to live in aliased pain then she would never know what she was missing. Shrouded away under the cover of self-imposed isolation, no one could touch her. No one could control or manipulate her the way Roy was trying to do. His voice spins like a vise thread around every inch of her, but the tighter he pulls, the more she realizes it’s nothing but cheap string strung by a cheap man.

The bartender smiles at her and pushes two drinks along the countertop, one of which Anne snatches before Roy can even notice they’re there. The grin he flashes her is wild and confident, tirade cutting off almost immediately as something smug settles into the corners of his eyes. 

When she says his name, quiet against the background music, he goes up in flames. Blazing and unhinged, Royal Gardner is forest fire waiting to burn down whatever is left of one miss Anne Shirley.

And how do you put a forest fire out?

Well, pour a drink on it, of course.

“Fool me once, shame on me,” Anne says as he sputters shocked nothings into the space between them. “Fool me twice, shame on you.”

Anne takes in the sight of him, wet black hair stuck to his forehead and the silk of his shirt clinging to his collarbone. There’s no doubt in her mind that he’s sticky from the soda alone and she takes sweet satisfaction in it. Whatever dragon he once was is now shriveled down to nothing at the toes of her feet. No wings. No fiery breath. No sharp claws.

He looks like nothing but a drowned rat.

His voice is the same horrible, icy tone she’s always known. _“You bitch.”_

“I won’t do this with you, anymore.” It comes out final. It _feels_ final. More final than anything in her life has ever been. “Don’t ever speak to me again.”

She’s turning on her heels before she has time to see the flashing in his eyes or the way he inflates like a hot air balloon and threatens to burst in front of the entire bar. He can scream all he wants, but he’ll never get his hands on her.

Before she knows it, she’s pushed her way through whatever crowd was lingering in the bar and has found herself entire blocks away. She must have been carried by adrenaline and pride because she doesn’t remember walking this far.

God, that felt good. He should have seen the look on his face! No one has probably ever dared to throw a drink in his face before and Anne got the sole pleasure of being his first – of seeing the wide-eyed bombshell of a realization that she doesn’t belong to him. She doesn’t belong to _anybody_.

The only person Anne Shirley belongs to is herself.

She smiles so wide it threatens to crack her face in half. Inside her chest, her heart is pounding against her ribcage in celebratory rhythms.

Thump.

_Congratulations._

Thump.

_You did it._

Thump.

_He has no control over you. Not anymore._

It’s relief and satisfaction all bundled into one breath of air. And _god_ it feels good. 

_________________________

Bad things come in threes. They do. They _have_ to. People wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. Passed down from generation to generation, the Rule of Threes lingers in the corner of every bad day, every wrong move.

Anne has had her three bad things. Diana, Roy, and Billy. Hell, if she counts Gilbert that would make four. She’s had her three, she’s done her time. She has suffered at the hands of universal rules and she should be able to breathe. There should be reprive waiting for her around the corner, some kind of payout for the trouble she’s suffered.

 _Retribution_.

She asks the world for so little and it gives her even less.

Slaying the dragon that once was Royal Gardner is apparently the only win Anne gets. She rides the high of it all through the night and into the next morning. It’s easy to, when she has all the confidence in the world. One hundred and sixty pounds of deadweight shaved off of her conscience makes the whole world feel a little bit lighter.

And then –

“Oh, right. I’ll get it to you later in the week. I’m a tad bit short on cash right now.” The fact that Mrs. Hammond doesn’t even look at her when she says it sends Anne’s entire world spinning.

It’s the same fight. The same conversation. The same borderline argument that Anne cannot keep having. The tumbleweeds in her wallet are screaming out, begging for something more sustainable. And Mrs. Hammond – Mrs. _Fucking_ Hammond – just smiles that sickly sweet smile at her. The same fucking smile.

“Mrs. Hammond –”

“Anne, dear, I really can’t handle this right now,” She says, and then under her breath: “Glad to know the money is all you care about.”

The switch from complete and total apathy to violent hurricane of emotions flips so fast that Anne’s vision whites out around the corners.

“Excuse me?”

“All I’m saying,” Mrs. Hammond begins, “is that the children are, and always will be, my top priority.”

A scoff lodges itself in the back of Anne’s throat, chokes her a little bit in the way it begs to come out. Mrs. Hammond? Caring about her children? Anne sees the way she looks at them, hears the way she speaks to them. Mrs. Hammond reminds her of every stale face she saw when she was in the system. A bitter wife with a drunkard husband who’s never around, ready to pawn all of responsibilities off on someone desperate for something. Anne has taken care of other people’s children a thousand times in a thousand different ways. Before, it was in exchange for food and shelter. Now, it’s for a paycheck. Which, if she thinks about it, the two are practically the same.

The realization hits her like a train: how things have never changed, not once, in her entire life. She has been circling around the same things for as long as she can remember. Begging for what she needs only to be met with the cold face of rejection.

The orphanage.

Roy.

Mrs. Hammond.

 _Herself_.

Choice, Anne thinks, is something she’s known little of but now realizes has been in front of her for years.

When she was eight, she tended to the needs of children much younger than her. But children cannot take care of children and accidents happened. She paid the price. Then, she had no choice. She had no say in where she went or what she did. She could not advocate for a better life and instead was thrust from system to system until it could no longer pin her down.

She’s older now. Stronger. Wiser, if she lies to herself.

Something hot has taken root inside of her stomach. It sits and simmers inside of her until she feels it boiling up and over the edges of whatever pot it’s in. The sheer heat alone is enough to have her breathing fire by the end of the week.

For all of the things she’s felt in her life, anger has always been fleeting. Any emotions that would have been sowed inside of her were shadowed by the sheer grief and exhaustion of being alive. Never before has she had the capacity to feel this way.

To feel so… _alive._

“If you can’t pay me, I can’t work for you,” Anne says. Something in her spine ticks up and makes her stand a little bit straighter. She can feel that same _something_ making its way up and into her shoulders. Her jaw sets itself in a stern way, eyes unmoving as Mrs. Hammond gawks at her.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I care about your children a great deal,” Anne continues, because she does. She cares about them a lot. But she can’t keep caring about this job if it’s just going to sink her further and further beneath the mud. “But I have my own bills and my own life to live. I can’t work for you if you’re not going to pay me. I need a reliable job.”

It’s the surest she’s ever heard herself speak.

Anne watches as her eyes sink into something dark and nasty. Shadows crawl up the slope of her jaw and she shifts into something bigger, something angry. The kind of beast Anne is all too familiar with. The kind that, when it doesn’t get its way, will howl into the night. “I have been so good to you, and this is how you repay me?”

“I’m providing you with a service,” Anne counters, “and that service should be compensated.” She’s not even sure where she’s pulling these words out of, but they feel _right_. Never before has Anne confronted so many demons and won, but she feels the victory of it all spilling into her veins. Genuine confidence is a rare look on her. In most cases it flees before she can grasp onto it.

Not this time.

“You haven’t paid me in two weeks. Not to mention, you’ve gypped me before. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the missing bills.”

She stands her ground even as Mrs. Hammond blows herself up so big that Anne feels dwarfed in comparison.

“Ungrateful,” Mrs. Hammond spits. “How dare you.”

Her finger points to the door.

Anne wants to say something quick witted and sharp, but the words don’t leave her lungs. She simply gathers up her belongings, kisses the youngest Hammond on the forehead, and leaves.

It isn’t until she’s halfway home that the panic sets in.

The reality of it all.

Fucking fuck. She’s unemployed. Like, _actually_ unemployed. No more options, no more side-gigs. It’s just her and her one room apartment and the rent that’s hanging over her head.

Bad things and threes and false omens. She should know better than to put stock in the universe when all it’s ever done is let her down. Anne’s life wasn’t built for cycles of three. The whole thing is bad.

Maybe there’s still time to fix things. If she turns around now, she’ll catch Mrs. Hammond before the kids go down for bed. Maybe she can explain herself. She’s so stressed right now. And, uh – fuck, going through a break up? Not really, but she can spin it that way if she wants to. A little bit of sympathy could go a long way.

Even with the urge to turn around pulling on her like puppet strings, her feet keep pushing her forward. One step after another, the soft slap of her shoes against the sidewalk is the only steady thing in her life. She keeps walking, keeps pushing forward the same way she always does.

Semi-automatic, so caught up in the brutal storm that brews above her head, Anne doesn’t bother watching where she’s going. She just walks, quickly, to her apartment.

Fuck, what is she going to do? It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. _None_ of this was supposed to happen. Sure, things have always been fucked up to some degree, but Anne had a nice handle on things for a while. She had things _under control_. It wasn’t great. Hell, at times, it wasn’t even good, but she had what she needed. A roof over her head, enough food in her stomach to keep her fed. She had little in the way of free time or friends, but it was _enough._ She was getting by.

And then she had to go fuck it all up. One bad decision after another. The guilt of it all falls around her like rain until she feels the wet of it run down her face. It falls in thick sheets until her chest feels so tight she can’t breathe, until the world turns into one big blur, until–

The sidewalk is sharp as it cuts into her knees, into her palms.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so – I wasn’t watching, I’m so sorry,” Anne rambles, quick and frantic as she presses her hands into the cold sidewalk to push herself standing. Her mind races with a thousand different thoughts, from _oh god what’s happening_ to _Anne you bumbling idiot, you need to watch where you’re going_ to _someone please_ _help me_. It’s all just an incoherent jumble in her head as she looks around and tries to regain her bearings.

The sun is long gone, leaving behind a blue twilight that cools her skin uncomfortably. Unlike the sticky humidity of the storms before, Anne finds her skin riddled with gooseflesh and anxiety. A shudder passes over her and she blinks hot tears away, too scared they’ll freeze to her skin even though she _knows_ it hasn’t been that cold in weeks.

“Oh, it’s quite alright.”

No.

No, she knows that voice. That voice belongs to one of the last people Anne wants to see right now, whimpering on the sidewalk from the grief of her own mistakes.

That voice, in all of its former comfort, catches her like a deer in headlights. Rooted to the ground and completely frozen, Anne stares blankly ahead.

All the while, her brain ticks on and on like the thrum of a little drummer boy. Every roll of a drumstick against the leathery-plastic, catching against the metallic rim in a sharp _snap_ sound, is her conscience yelling at her to get a grip. She needs to get her shit together. There’s no time to kneel on the concrete slab of the sidewalk and pity herself. Or let herself be pitied by others.

There are more important things to do. Like go home and start packing what little life she has into boxes. She had been skating on thin ice before, but now there’s no way she’ll be able to maintain her shitty living arrangement. Landlords are an unforgiving breed and Anne has never apologized for anything in her life. Not anything that matters, anyway.

So, Anne braces herself and turns around to face one of her nightly haunts.

Diana stands with perfect hair and a perfect smile, dressed in a perfect outfit. Despite being damn near bulldozed by Anne, she appears entirely put together. Just as she always has and always will. Anne, on the other hand, knows she is a disaster on ice. Her hair is unkempt and her eyes red rimmed. There is no poised smile or perfect posture. She is only Anne, in all of her unshed glory. What you see is what you get, no false advertising here. No, ma’am.

Diana’s automatic demeanor of polite, proper, and prim immediately shifts upon recognizing Anne. Her eyes widen a fraction, lips parting for a millisecond before she somehow stands even straighter. She pulls her bag closer to her chest, almost protectively, bristling at the sight of Anne. Which Anne doesn’t really blame her for.

If she saw herself, she’d be disgusted too. After everything she’s done, she deserves it.

“Anne,” Diana says, but her voice isn’t icy like Anne expects it to be. It’s almost cautious, timid in the way someone tries not to spook an animal.

Anne feels spooked anyway.

Diana’s eyes sweep over her once before they settle on her face. Anne is ready for it. She can feel the venom on Diana’s tongue, poison that sinks into the skin before the fangs breach her delicate flesh. It’s going to hurt. It might just kill her. But she deserves it.

“Are you alright?”

The words are so unexpected that they take a few moments to register. Anne blinks once, twice, and shakes her head in a vain attempt to think clearly. Diana takes a step closer, eyes narrowing in on Anne in a way that makes her feel seen and scared at the same time. “What happened?”

“I, uh,” is all that comes out at first. It’s a hollow sound that matches the way her life threatens to open up and swallow her. Again, everything spins and hums out of focus. No, she’s not alright. What’s happened? Well, Anne could almost laugh at her own self-sabotage.

Something ugly wells up in her chest, stinging and angry in the way it makes her lower lip tremble again. A fresh wave of tears after in the corner of her eyes and she shakes her head, this time with intention.

“You can tell me,” Diana whispers. “It’s okay.”

Anne isn’t sure if it’s the gentle tone of Diana’s voice or the way she is a warm, familiar presence. She hasn’t had familiar or warm in so long. A year ago, she didn’t even know those two things could exist at the same time but Diana is solid and real and here. So, with a stuttering breath and a crumbling sense of pride, Anne says, “I think I just ruined my life.”

Those seven words open the flood gates and the tears that were lingering in her eyelashes now roll in fat tracks down her face. A broken sob falls from her lips, shattered like any hope she had of making it out of this alive.

“Oh, Anne,” Diana coos, and then she’s gathering her up in her arms and squeezing tighter than Anne has ever been held before.

Diana hugs with the flats of her palms and her whole entire torso. Anne doesn’t think there’s a single part of them that isn’t touching, that isn’t connected in some way. Her chin tucks neatly into the crook of Diana’s neck and their knees bump together where Anne is shaking and trying to stay standing. Diana – steady and loyal Diana – keeps her upright like a pillar, holding them tall and steady in the middle of the sidewalk. It’s unlike any way she’s ever been hugged.

And Anne. Oh, Anne, how she cries. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, _Anne cries._

“I don’t – I don’t know what I’m doing,” She hiccoughs, reeling from the way Diana’s palm swipes up and down her spine.

“It’s going to be okay,” Diana soothes. In a moment of blind instinct, Anne compares Diana to that of a mother: comforting and calm. Her voice has a delicate tone to it this thick, strange safety radiates off of her in waves. “Whatever happened, it’s going to be okay.”

It won’t be okay, though, because Anne just walked out of the one and only thing holding her life together. The last hope she had of staying afloat is _gone_.

Her fingers dig into the back of Diana’s shirt, balling it up in her palms and tethering them together as she sobs harder.

“Let’s get you home,” Diana coos, pulling back and brushing a chunk of hair out of Anne’s face. “You need some water and a comfortable bed.”

Anne only has the energy for a small flash of panic at this idea, but she’s too tired to fight. What’s left of her is leaking out of her eyes and nose, leaving her nothing but a husk in Diana’s arms. She nods a simple yes, letting Diana wrap an arm around her shoulders to keep her close as they walk.

She doesn’t recall giving any directions, but they somehow end up on the small pathway outside of her door. Her hands tremble as she digs her key out of her pocket and she drops it twice before Diana gently takes it from her hand.

It’s warm inside, almost to the point of being unbreathable, but there’s no air conditioning so Anne simply gives up and makes her way to her bed. It welcomes her the same way it always does: the springs groan and shift under her weight. The old boards holding it up off the ground broke weeks ago, so now her mattress simply sits on the floor, knee high and in the way.

The space around her bed has become a cautionary tale. The books she used to hide underneath her bed are now stacked messily in the corner. Clothing is scattered about the floor, too unimportant to warrant a trip to the laundromat what with Anne’s steadily decreasing motivation.

She forgets Diana’s still there until she feels the bed shift. A firm hand settles between her shoulder blades. “Whatever happened, we’ll figure it out.”

Anne makes a noise caught between a laugh and a dry heave. For a second, she allows herself to cry harder. She feels the way her lower lip flutters, followed by the dimpling of her chin. Her eyes clench shut and her fists open and close, grabbing and releasing the sheets several times. A fresh burst of hot tears spills down her cheeks, but she does not allow herself to whimper. For all the ways her face contorts, she wills her voice back down her throat. And after a few moments, several steady breaths, and a fully body shudder, she comes back down into reality.

Her eyelids are heavy when she opens them and finds Diana staring down, concerned and patient.

“I’m sorry,” She croaks, smearing the tears off her face and sitting up.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Diana tries, but Anne doesn’t care for those words. There’s too much to be sorry for. She’s sorry for _everything_ , and especially sorry for pushing Diana away for no good reason and then guilting her into taking care of her. It feels so manipulative to have Diana here after treating her so poorly. It feels _wrong_.

But Diana doesn’t waver. If she feels used or taken advantage of it doesn’t show. She simply asks, “What happened?”

“What didn’t happen?” Anne chokes, words wet and bubbling in the base of her throat. It’s impossible to stop the sob as it wracks her body. She squeezes her eyes shut tight as it passes through her, then opens them again to find Diana still watching her, blue waters a gentle current in the center of Anne’s storm.

“Start from the beginning?” She prompts gently, reaching out and grabbing Anne’s hand. Her grip is loose enough to allow Anne to pull away should she want to. But she doesn’t. Diana’s warmth is grounding in a way nothing else is right now.

Through a shaky breath of air, Anne says, “I lost both my jobs.”

Diana does not make a pitying sound. She does not turn her lips down and coo, nor does she squish her eyebrows up and look solemn. Instead, she swipes her thumb over the back of Anne’s hand, and tilts her head at an inquisitive angle.

“I’m such a fucking idiot.” Anne brings her free hand up and presses the heel of her palm to the bridge of her nose. It relieves the pressure of her budding headache the same way a sugar pill stops a child from crying on the playground. An empty, hollow gesture, but it helps all the same.

“You’re not,” Diana says, like it's a fact. Like she looked it up in one of those textbooks she studies from and saw it written in verified ink. She sounds so sure of herself that Anne has to blink back another wave of tears.

It’s what she wants to hear, but she knows it’s not true.

“Sweet Diana,” Anne scoffs. Her eyes roll into the back of her head on their own, an empty gesture of frustration that Diana only seems to take mild offence to, judging by the wary look that passes over her face. Maybe she thinks Anne is patronizing her. Maybe she is. It doesn’t matter too much. “You can’t say things like that when you don’t know the whole story.”

Diana crosses her arms, eyebrow cocked and a sure smile on her face. Challenging, feeding into the game Anne is playing. Almost as if she knows fully what she's going to say regardless of the tale Anne spins.

There is no broken sob when she speaks. No shuddering breath or shaking shoulders. Anne speaks her truth in a cold, emotionless tone. Facts to be laid out bare and whole for the world to consider, before settling on the verdict that she brought this upon herself. “I insulted both of my bosses, to their faces, and walked out. And now I have no way to pay my bills.”

Diana manages to keep her jaw off the ground, but only barely. Her eyes widen at Anne’s words, hand clenching where it still rests atop Anne’s. She deserves a medal for the way she keeps her composure. Whatever judgement she holds right now sits tight in her chest, her disapproval for Anne’s decisions sitting locked away until she can vent her frustrations.

Diana is unlucky for happening upon Anne, unluckier still for helping her home. Now she is saddled with tending to the wreckage of this self-inflicted storm.

After a measured breath, she speaks.

“We can’t change the past, but we can try to do damage control in the future.”

Anne barks out a laugh so dry it feels like sandpaper in her throat. “Damage control? This isn’t some PR mistake that can be fixed with a few well-placed apologies. And even if it could, I wouldn’t take it. I can’t ever work for either of them again.”

The words surprise both of them. Anne recoils slightly, feeling her tongue where it sits heavy in her mouth. That’s not what she meant to say. Of course, she would take her jobs back. She’d do anything to pull herself out of her waiting grave. She would beg and kiss the ground they walk on if they would take her back.

Right?

“I’ll never go back,” Anne says a second time. The words taste the same. They taste like the truth. “Fuck.”

“Okay,” Diana says, like it’s that simple. Maybe it is. Maybe this is the end of her life here, the start of a new chapter or whatever the fuck optimism sounds like. She’ll leave Halifax, start fresh somewhere on one knows her name. She could go west, maybe as far as Toronto. Find work in a different crappy diner with a different crappy boss and have a different crappy life. 

“I need to start packing.”

Diana’s hand easily slips away when Anne stands. She swipes at the leftover tears on her cheeks.

“Packing?” Diana asks.

“I can’t stay here if I don’t have a job. I did the math, I can either stay here until I run out of money or I can leave now and try to get a new place somewhere else after I find a job. Probably in another city.”

“Anne, there are other places you can work.”

“No one will want to hire me. I’m sure Mr. Andrews has already told every restaurant in Halifax how I stormed out of the diner and Mrs. Hammond hardly counts as a reference, not that she’d speak highly of me after the things I said to her.”

“The Andrews hardly control the food industry around here,” Diana reasons, rising to follow Anne where she’s crouched in the corner, rifling through a pile of things she will most likely have to throw away. Anne doesn’t have too many worldly posessions, but she still doesn’t have the space or strength to take everything when she goes. This journal, with its pages torn and tea stained, isn’t a necessity. That hoodie has a hole in the cuff, someone at the thrift store probably needs it more than she does. “Besides, who says you have to go back to waitressing?”

“I don’t have any other skills,” Anne mutters. She has a duffle bag somewhere around here that will fit most of her clothes. Maybe she can find a suitcase at a thrift store.

“Bullshit,” Diana says.

Anne sighs, running her fingers through her hair. They catch in the tangles and knots leftover from the wind. The sting against her scalp reminds her that she’s a real person who feels real things. Everything feels so far out of her depth right now, the way she’s floating up, up, up out of her body. Diana’s words linger in the air above her, biting at the tips of her ears and reminding her of who she is.

“I’m not you,” Anne sighs. She means for it to come out harsh and nasty, but there isn’t much fight left inside her. “I don’t have a shiny piece of paper that will tell people I’m good at whatever the fuck I didn’t study in school.”

She gets down on Anne’s level, blocking her from grabbing the pile of notebooks she was eyeing up. “Let’s table this, yeah? It’s late, you must be exhausted.”

Anne shrugs, mostly because she doesn’t want to admit Diana is right. She _is_ exhausted. There’s an ache deep in her bones that begs for the quiet relief of sleep. Unwillingly, her eyelids droop.

“C’mon,” Diana whispers, then she’s helping Anne stand and leading her toward the bed. The sheets welcome her, mattress giving under her weight as she sinks into the springs. The mattress creaks again when Diana sits at the edge and runs a gentle hand through the greasy strands of hair tickling Anne’s forehead. “We’ll figure this out in the morning.”

Anne won’t say she has hope, because she doesn’t. But hope or not, the morning will come. She’ll have to figure _something_ out. Maybe having Diana here when she wakes won’t be so bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Vanishes for 4 month and returns with a Starbucks coffee and a 13k chapter
> 
> Hey guys what’s up I’m so fucking sorry?
> 
> Things got… Kinda rough for a little while if I’m being honest. August was a really difficult month for me, mental health wise. I took a nosedive for a bit. I got back on my feet in September and got a job in my field and I’ve been working on getting myself back together, adjusting to my new job, and transitioning out of my old job. Then, there was a 6 week period where I was working over 60 hours a week. It’s just…. Been a rough few months. And I’m sorry about the length of time it took to update, but I’m not sorry about taking time for my mental health. This pandemic has been really hard on me and I just want to thank everyone who’s still here for your patience and support. (I really hope people still care about this fic). 
> 
> So the plan is for one more chapter and then an epilogue. I have everything planned out, so I just need to sit down and write it. I’m excited for the ending of this story. I’m really, really, REALLY hoping to have everything finished for it before 2021. And yes I’m giving myself such a big gap bc I know it’s gonna take me a while. So please be patient with me while I finish this fic. I can’t guarantee the next chapter will be out quickly. If I’m being honest, it probably won’t. I have an awful habit of pulling back from a story as I get closer to the end bc I don’t want to finish it. (I will finish it, though. I just get sad about things ending). 
> 
> A HUGE HUGE HUGE fucking thank you to Rachel (writergirl8) for beta reading this for me. The entire fic thus far has been without a beta but when I asked her to look over this chapter for me she stepped up and DELIVERED. She caught so many small mistakes and gave some AMAZING input. This chapter would not be what it is without her constant support. Seriously. I cried in her DMs weekly about it. I adore her and everyone else should, too. 
> 
> Anyway I love you all and I hope people are still here to enjoy this fic. I know it’s been a while and I really wouldn’t blame anyone if they fell away from it. So if you’re still here I love you. Please drop a comment if you're so inclined to give me thoughts, predictions, validation, angry exhortations, nonsense, or whatever you're so inclined to do. I love hearing from everyone!
> 
> Come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://thelazyeye.tumblr.com/) and on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/thelazyeye24)! And please, if you’re so inclined, drop a comment and let me know what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> If you want, come chat w me @ thelazyeye.tumblr.com


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